Kamari

🪷26🪷

[fairyysoup]

a sudden desire

pairing(s): baelor "breakspear" targaryen x fem!reader

summary: When Prince Daeron Targaryen refuses your hand in marriage, it puts you between a rock and a hard place. The rock being a deadly sex potion, and the hard place being the heir to the Iron Throne.

words: 21.1k (ahaha. wtf)

cw: explicit, smut, sex pollen, fuck or die, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), virginity loss, hand kink, fluids, belly bulge, mild exhibitionism, implied voyeurism at the end, somewhat forced proximity, brat taming, soft dom!baelor, big dick baelor, baelor is a munch, older man/younger woman, age difference, discussions of pregnancy, breeding kink, mild coercion, this is all very gratuitous, marriage, possessive behavior, noble!reader, reader called 'lady' and 'girl', yearning, poisoning, magic potions, suicidal ideation, sickbed, canon typical sexism, i love you daeron baby but you very much caused this to happen, mildly edited, not beta read

a/n: i made the executive decision to use american english for this instead of the canonical british english of the books. found very little information on the dragon's breath flower as it appears in canon, so i made some bullshit up and based it on devil's trumpet. don't ask me about the capitalization of nothin. Mircalla is named for Mircalla Karnstein from Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu. Maester Florin named bc I couldn't just call the fucker Thorin Oakenshield. whatever

thank you again to my babes @urhoneycombwitch and @runawaywerewolf for being so nice to me while i lost my mind about this <3

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The Targaryens believe that they have the fire of dragons coursing through their veins, but you aren't certain that it's true. If they did, you don't see how they could get anything done, at all. Because right now you do, and it's agony.

Everything hurts. From your head to your toes it feels like your body is filled with venom, burning beneath your skin, your muscles all convulsing in waves of destruction that leave you all but incapacitated. Milk of the poppy does not help, and nor does wine. If you were delirious it would probably be more bearable, but unfortunately your mind is devastatingly sharp. It feels like you have even more awareness of everything than you normally do— your skin is so hypersensitive that you can feel every fibre of your sweat-drenched chemise, and you can feel the temperature of every breath you take as it fills your lungs. The lights are too bright, sounds are louder, flavors more vibrant on your tongue. Every little thing that is happening around you gets filed into your mind so that you feel, in no uncertain terms, like you could fight an entire army yourself and survive. If you were able to move beyond the pain.

You've really done it this time. You didn't believe that the potion was anything dangerous; otherwise you wouldn't have put it in your wine. You were under the impression that it was just a little charm, something cooked up by a wise woman to make lovesick people sleep better at night. You expected it to put a gleam in your eye and a skip in your step, but not this.

"Put this in your wine and watch your love blossom like a rose in bloom," the old lady had told you as she pressed the vial into your outstretched hand. She had taken your coin readily enough and ignored the skeptical look that your lady's maid, Mircalla, had given her. "Drink deep. Enjoy the fortune of love."

Fortune of love, indeed. You're dying. You can tell just by the look on Maester Florin's face as he tests the remnants of the bottle in the corner with some convoluted apothecary setup he's constructed on your vanity table. You feel as though you have one eye on the bubbling beakers, and another eye on Mircalla as she sits by your bedside and dabs a damp cloth over your forehead.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks quietly, and you know that she means well, but you have to physically stop yourself from smacking her hand away. The cloth is too rough on your forehead, scratching and squelching in your ears with the sound of the water, which smells of ale and sour fruit. Perhaps the bucket she used to bring the water in previously had been used to brew cider, but now it just makes the water stink.

"Nothing else, please," you croak at her with as much grace as you can muster. You lightly grab her wrist, squeeze it. "Thank you, Mircalla. Your services won't be needed anymore today, I think. I would not want you to see this any further."

"I am not certain that I should—"

"No. Go, please—" You just barely manage to turn your head away before a spasm of white-hot pain rips through your body, and you scream as you plant your face into your pillow. Both Mircalla and the maester jump at the shrillness of it.

"They're happening more frequently," you hear her mutter to him as she carries the bucket toward the door. "Shall I send for someone? A septon, perhaps?"

"Not yet, thank you. I must discuss the lady's affliction with her privately."

You close your eyes as if to block out the rush of sound that comes from the hall upon Mircalla opening your chamber door. You know that most— if not all— of your own family members, have retreated to other areas of the Red Keep. You assume that it's because you've been screaming loud enough to wake the dead, but perhaps there are other things happening in the castle that are more important than you managing to poison yourself.

"Maester," you grumble out dryly, your voice crackling in your throat. Now that the water is gone you aren't being assaulted by the smell of old cider, but the air still reeks of incense and acrid fumes from whatever his alchemy wrought. "I know I am dying. Just tell me why."

Maester Florin clears his throat and shifts on his feet, holding the little glass vial in his fingers. "My lady. You say that you bought this from a market stall?"

"Yes."

"And… did the seller tell you precisely what it was?"

"She said it was a potion," you tell him, tensing as a wave of pain swells up but then recedes before it can hit its peak, "to bring fortune in love. Nothing more."

There is a long silence, and you wonder if the maester has gone back to his work. You open your eyes a crack to look at him, but he is still standing in the same spot, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he chances, "It is… not for me to ask what use you have of this potion…"

You groan, and it has nothing to do with the pain coursing through your body. You can't even gather the strength to cover your face in embarrassment, so you simply close your eyes.

It is common knowledge within the castle walls that Prince Daeron refused your hand in marriage after you were presented to him. He cited 'conflicting personalities' as the reason for his refusal— however, you had never had a complete conversation with Prince Daeron. There was no possible way that your personalities could be in conflict; you'd barely met him. Which meant that there was another reason for his refusal.

You knew that neither the King, nor the Crown Prince or his brother were pleased about it. It caused immense trouble for House Targaryen; your own family is one of the Targaryens' greatest allies, so it would only cause a rift between the two households if you were to be turned away with no good reason. House Targaryen could not afford to lose your family's alliance, and so you were asked to remain in King's Landing for another two weeks— or, to put it more plainly, until Prince Maekar or another of the Targaryens could convince Daeron to change his mind.

All of the muscles in your abdomen lock up, and what feels like a roaring hot fire rushes through your body all at once. You scream again, your back threatening to arch off the bed with your convulsing. It hurts so much. How could it possibly hurt so much? How could this little vial of fluid be enough to make you feel like you're burning alive from the inside out? You can hear your own scream ringing around the stone walls of the chamber, loud enough to startle a couple crows off of the eaves outside the open window.

While you're still curled into a ball on the bed, catching your breath, you hear a swift knock on the chamber door before it creaks open. There, you catch a whiff of spice and musk, rich and full. Your eyes fly open in horror as the source of the scent steps into the room with all the lordly grace of the seven kingdoms.

"Maester Florin," comes Prince Baelor Breakspear's voice, usually grounding and calming, but right now it hits you like a lightning bolt in the chest, knocking the very wind out of your lungs. "There seems to be much commotion. May I inquire as to how the lady is faring?"

Maester Florin bows. "Your Grace, I—"

"No."

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop it. Everything was manageable, more or less, until the Crown Prince entered the room, but now… now, his scent fills your lungs, his words are in your ears, you can practically taste him on the air, like peppercorn and sweet juniper. Your heart pounds in your ribcage like it's trying to escape, your blood singing with fire and your skin prickling with sweat.

You don't want to think about Prince Baelor right now. Each time he comes to mind, it's with an enormous wave of pain ripping through your entire body, as though the very thought of him causes the affliction to double its efforts to end you. Even so, in your mind you see the image of the Prince's concerned face when he stepped into your sick room one day ago, to make the same inquiry and send for a maester to attend you.

You have to get out. You have to leave before the next wave of pain kills you.

You're so tense that when you try to flop over on the bed, you look like a cockroach trying to right itself. "No. No no no no—" In spite of the pain in your muscles, you grab the corner of the goose down mattress and pull yourself toward the edge of the bed, until your upper body hangs off the side, limp as a wet rag.

"My lady, that is inadvisable—" Maester Florin rushes towards you as soon as your fingers meet the stone floor. "You will hurt yourself without assistance."

"Has she been like this the entire time?" Baelor's voice remains steady, but there is a newer, sharper quality to it: he's displeased. If you were to chance a look at him, you would see the carefully concealed worry beneath his practiced diplomacy, but you cannot bring yourself to look his way for fear that it might end you.

Instead, you continue trying to throw yourself from the bed, while Maester Florin actively tries to put you back in it. "No, Your Grace. Aside from the— the screaming—"

Florin's hand connects with your shoulder, and you just about punch him, the pain is so excruciating. Instead, you whack your hand against the front of his robes and bunch them in your fist to pull him close to your face.

"I asked you a question, Maester," you growl at him with a livid expression, watching his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. "Why is this happening?"

"You consumed a powerful aphrodisiac." He swallows, his eyes nervously flitting in Baelor's direction.

You make the grave mistake of following Florin's gaze, and you look at Baelor. The Hand of the King stands at the foot of your sickbed, his eyes focused on you, and only you. His face remains impassive, yet his fingers twitch as though he is contemplating what he can do to intervene.

You push Maester Florin away and begin frantically clawing your way back up the bed towards the headboard. You can feel it: the next wave of heat and pain, building in your toes and hands, inching down your limbs. "Nonono— Maid and Mother's fucking tits."

You manage to plant your face in the pillow before you let out another scream, but this time it seems worse, like you might actually split in half from the pain. You don't know how much more of it you can take. You've drenched your threadbare chemise in sweat, to the point that it doesn't really preserve your modesty anymore. All it does is stick to your damp, oversensitive skin, irritating you and making the sensory overload that much worse.

Once the pain subsides, you begin to rip at the offending garment in an attempt to draw it over your head. You're babbling nonsense, fragments of sentences and profanities that you don't even remember having in your repertoire, but you can still hear Maester Florin as he rattles off technical explanations to his Prince.

"—was purchased from a market stall— seems to be a tincture of moonbloom and gilliflower— another ingredient I have not yet identified—"

Before you can manage to muscle the useless chemise over your head, a hand settles on your back directly between your shoulder blades.

"Don't do that, my lady."

Baelor's voice is directly over your shoulder, gentle but stern. His hand presses solidly between your shoulders, holding the fabric of your chemise against your overheated flesh. You blink, seeing nothing but the headboard of the bed and cream colored linen, but feeling surrounded by him. His scent, his touch, his voice, so close and so strong, should hurt. It should hurt, because until now the barest touch has been agony, exacerbating the pain and torment.

But Baelor's touch does nothing. It's the oddest thing, enough to make you stop moving and tensing up for just a moment. You are still too hot, your skin is still too sensitive, but the only warmth and sensation that Baelor's hand brings is… comforting. Relief emanates from the single point of contact, bleeding through your body in tangible ripples that seem to stretch out down your spine and along your limbs.

That is, until the relief settles low. And then it becomes something else, something arguably worse than the pain. Your core muscles draw up tight and aching, and the heat and agony is replaced with devastating, almost crippling arousal.

You gasp, your back arching dramatically like that of a frightened cat, and you practically throw yourself away from Baelor with all the grace of a scared animal. Or, at least, you try to leap from the bed, but your body is sluggish, and Baelor Breakspear is nothing if not a quick combatant.

As soon as you try to take off, bouncing up like one of the crows into the air, Baelor's arm comes around your waist and drags you back down to the mattress. Try as you might to wriggle free and fling yourself to the floor, Baelor is strong, a force to be reckoned with.

"Stop this at once." Baelor's voice is still just as firm, but the gentility with which he orders you is… it's awful. He commands you with kindness and patience. "I will not abide you hurting yourself."

"Already hurts," you argue, although it's more of a lie the longer Baelor holds you.

It's as though he has the cure to your ailment within his very palms. But, while he holds you down, cradling you with your back to his chest, your arousal grows to a horrifying degree. You can feel your core muscles contract and release, the wetness between your legs smearing your thighs. There is a very likely chance that you may cum without any other form of stimulation, and you will not be able to survive that amount of humiliation. Perhaps he cannot abide you hurting yourself, but you cannot abide acting like a whore in the Prince of Dragonstone's arms.

You make a small, frantic noise in the back of your throat, and whimper, "I have to go. Let me go. Please. Please— Please. My lord, let me go. I have to go."

The small skirmish nears its end as you plant your hands on his forearm and try to push it away, but your hands are too weak and his arm is like a steel belt holding you down.

"Go where?" His voice is too close to your ear. You shiver in his arms, clamping your thighs together to stave off the new waves of heat coalescing between them. Goosebumps break out across your skin, and you feel your eyes widen. He sounds so fucking calm when he says, "There are several flights of stairs to descend before you reach the ground floor. Your only other option is the window, and you will break every bone in your body no matter which way you decide to go, unless you can walk. Can you walk?"

Only if you're touching me. You grit your teeth. "I have to try."

"No." It's Baelor who says it this time, and in spite of all your fighting, you can't seem to drum up any more of it.

You have to admit that it's a relief to not be in pain anymore, even if you have an entirely different set of problems to contend with, now. You slump forward in his arms, hanging your head as you dumbly squeeze at the fabric of his sleeve. "It is not proper for you to be holding me this way, Your Grace."

"I fear that it would be less proper of me to allow you to throw yourself from the window," Baelor explains rationally. Still, he releases his arm from around your waist, only bringing a hand up to move your hair away from your face. You have to physically fight not to press your overheated cheek into the cradle of his hand, like a cat seeking out affection. He pauses, and then says, "Maester, you said that you had not identified an ingredient of the tincture. Could it be dragon's breath?"

"No, Your Grace." Maester Florin speaks from across the room, where he retreated back to his apothecary setup. "With respect, I am familiar with dragon's breath. I would have been able to identify its presence with relative ease."

"She smells of it." Baelor does not say it unkindly.

"It is possible that while the tincture is in her system, the aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly as well." Florin pauses, then clarifies, "That is, it will cause her to look, smell, or sound in ways that… some may consider… attractive, Your Grace."

Baelor remains silent. The implication hangs solidly in the air. You notice almost immediately that the maester did not include taste in that assessment, although it lingers in the subtext. The Prince is being effected by your presence, even if it is not to the same degree that you are being effected by his.

"You never answered my question, Maester," you finally interject. "Why is it killing me?"

You feel Baelor's fingers tense on your shoulder just slightly at the question, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits while Florin seems to flounder for a moment, and then gently supplements, "Please answer the lady's question."

Florin looks deeply uncomfortable. "Your Grace, it's… of quite a delicate subject matter. I hesitate to cause yourself or the lady any offense—"

"Seven above, just spit it out, already!" You swipe your arm across your sweaty forehead, desperate to put an end to the hedging about. "I've been laying here dying for ages! What is it, what?"

"That's enough, now." Baelor holds a hand up to silence you, and you almost think you might bite it, except that he has such beautiful hands. You wouldn't want to mar them. You stare unabashedly at his silver ring and the lines on his palm, and you start… salivating.

Gods be good. You're going to eat him.

Florin hesitates only a second more. "This aphrodisiac… although the recipes differ across various regions, it is normally intended as a… a temporary cure for impotence and infertility. It is… I believe it is primarily used in brothels, to make— er… intercourse more— ehm. Pleasurable?"

You blink. "If it's meant to be pleasurable, then why does it hurt so much?" You still refuse to admit that you're already experiencing the so-called pleasurable function— that is, you're soaking the mattress with it the longer Baelor keeps his hand on your shoulder.

"Well, it is usually taken with the intention of… ehm. Using it for its innate purpose, you see. The aphrodisiac will remain in one's system until it has been expelled during copulation."

Baelor drops his hand from your shoulder and takes a step back. You feel the loss like a punch in the gut— quite literally, all of your muscles tighten at once, and you double over in pain.

Through clenched teeth, you say, "So, you mean I have to… to have sex?" The look on the maester's face says everything you need to know. "Or what? What if I don't? I'm— it hurts so much, I can't— I wouldn't be able to do anything… not on my own."

Your face burns at the admission. The humiliation— the irony of it all is unbelievable. The little lady took a love potion and now can't fuck herself properly enough to get it out of her system. The only hand she reacts to is the one she can't have, because it belongs to the Realm.

Florin chews on his lip while he thinks, and then explains, "This particular recipe seems more aggressive than most. That is likely due to the unidentifiable ingredient. The potion is, essentially, a slow acting poison. If it is not used for its intended purpose… I suppose, generally, there will be immense pain and fits for… three days after ingestion. Delirium sets in after about two days. And then—" His eyes flit from you, to Baelor, and back. "Then, my lady, I'm afraid you will die."

One Week Earlier

Admittedly, you knew it wouldn't work the minute you saw Daeron. He looked green about the face, his eyes so red and bleary that you thought he would keel over at any moment. If you hadn't heard him called 'Daeron the Drunken' behind closed doors, you would have tried to somehow politely ask if he was ill. Instead, you just assumed he'd had one too many before showing up to your presentation in court.

No, you aren't surprised that he turned down the offer of marriage. You were, however, surprised that he did not deliver the news himself. Instead, he sent a servant with a note while you were eating breakfast, and left you to bring it before the King. The entire meeting went over about the way you expected. Prince Maekar went to find Daeron, Prince Baelor apologized for his nephew's rudeness and the inconvenience, and the King assured you that all would be made well.

The truth of the matter is that you have no interest in Daeron, anyway. You do not want a husband who refuses to talk to you, even if his drunkenness was not an issue. Daeron has given you no reason to desire him— at this point, the prospect of the marriage would be a matter of your family's social and financial standing, and your own status as a Princess.

Now that the castle is sufficiently in an uproar about Daeron's refusal, you have made your gracious retreat to the gardens. You don't want to be in the castle any longer than you have to. Your family has already suggested leaving King's Landing in two days' time, and even so, it feels like too long to wait.

From the gardens, you look out over Blackwater Bay, watching ships disappear one by one over the horizon. You have no idea how long you sit there, but the sun slowly creeps lower and lower in the sky, until golden light filters through the leaves of the trees.

"My lady." For how large of a man Baelor is, he is light on his feet. You hadn't heard him approach, and so you jump when he addresses you, spinning around to find him standing a respectable distance away from your bench. When you stand to curtsy, he gives you an indulgent smile. "It appears that you've been out here for some time. I only wanted to ensure all was well."

You fight not to raise an eyebrow at the Prince. "You must have been watching me closely, then, Your Grace."

He squints, then pivots to peer up at the Tower of the Hand, looming over the Red Keep. "Not so close, I should think."

You snicker at that, casting your eyes away from him. Baelor is a handsome man, and kind. You find your awareness lingering on him above all others, and you're beginning to fear that your crush is becoming obvious. You feel nervous in his presence in only the best way, as though you may trip over your own tongue and say something entirely unbecoming just as soon as you open your mouth. That feeling is… refreshing, in the right company. But Baelor is heir apparent to the Iron Throne, Protector of the Realm, and you are simply a noble lady much younger than him, with the prospect of marrying his nephew. Any fantasies you indulge can only be that.

"May I join you a moment?" Baelor asks, and despite your internal angst, you cannot bring yourself to refuse him.

Perhaps it would be more proper to have your lady's maid here with you, but Mircalla has other things to be doing now, and so you sit a respectable distance away from Baelor on the bench while staring out to sea and wishing it was not respectable at all.

"In my week at court, I've discovered that I quite like this view," you say after a beat, to puncture the tight shroud of silence that settles between the two of you. "I enjoy watching the waves. I wonder what it's like to be one of them, sometimes. Rolling always towards the shore."

"Or dashing upon the rocks?"

You hum. "At least they know where they're going, rocks or no."

You retreat back into silence with him, and watch him out of the corner of your eye as he twirls his silver ring around his finger idly. He seems to be thinking hard about something, eyes fixed on the horizon with a purpose. It gives you just a moment to admire his profile— his strong, twice-broken nose, his furrowed brow, the touches of silvery gray in his close-cropped dark hair. The small freckle on his cheekbone. The stretch of his neck from beneath his collar, begging for a pair of lips or a tongue to lavish it.

"My lady, allow me to extend my apologies once more for my nephew's behavior," Baelor says finally, and you turn your eyes quickly back out to sea. "It is not the first time Daeron has been irresponsible with delicate matters. Although, it is also the fault of we who expect responsibility from him, that there must be an apology."

"I don't think it's unreasonable to expect responsibility from a prince," you answer without thinking, and then suddenly remember who you are speaking to. "…Your Grace."

"No. On that, we agree." There is a light chuckle in his voice, a slight humor that you imagine is meant to make you feel more at ease. "I do not imagine that Daeron will take long to rectify his behavior, however."

You feel a girlish temper flare within you at the idea that Daeron could rectify anything. You take a long, sobering breath, smelling sea salt and garden flowers on the air.

"You were married, Your Grace. You know quite well how to approach a—" Woman. You want to say it, but you feel it would be too forward. You reconsider, and continue instead with, "a betrothal. Do you believe that anything Daeron has done makes for a… a loving marriage?"

Baelor considers your question with the attention you would expect from the King's Hand. Then, he answers, "I would not hazard a guess as to the sincerity of Daeron's feelings toward you, my lady. Only he can truly know the answer to that. Though, it may bring you some comfort to know that…" He pauses thoughtfully. "My own marriage was not for love. It was arranged, as duty demanded. But, in time, I do believe Jena and I came to love one another, as well as a match made in service to the Crown would allow. Perhaps your marriage to Daeron would be the same."

You sit with his words. Enter into a loveless marriage, having already been besmirched by the man who you would bind yourself to, and hope that love will come in spite of it all. It sounds like a fool's errand.

"Be that as it may, I believe Daeron has already done some irreparable damage to my reputation." When you see Baelor turn his head just barely toward you, you supplement, "My lady's maid, Mircalla, shares with me the gossip I would otherwise be protected from. Sometimes, it can be… harsh. She is honest with me, which is a quality I admire most, you understand." You look down at your hands to find yourself tearing at your own cuticles in your nervousness. "She told me some hours ago that there are rumors floating about as to why— why Daeron would refuse me. Some speculated that we fought upon first meeting. Others suggest that I am pregnant with another man's bastard. Or— Or that we have already slept together, and that Daeron was not pleased with me. Can you imagine…?"

Your voice fades out on a horrified whisper. Although none of these rumors are true, each of them deal a blow to your reputation in turn. Your eyes sting with tears the longer you think of the different stories concocted about you.

"Although it may satisfy me to have Daeron grovel and beg forgiveness, it makes no difference. From now on I will be known as the whore that Daeron refused."

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Baelor pressing his lips together tightly, raising his chin just a tick. The Prince is quiet for a moment, while you bite back your tears and turn your face away from him.

"You say that honesty is a trait that you value," Baelor remarks, and waits until you nod at him in response. "Then please trust me to be honest. I cannot imagine that anyone would truly believe that of you, my lady. You see, I have had the privilege of knowing you during your time at the Red Keep, and I find you to be exceptional in every way. I can't imagine it, because I cannot fathom anyone viewing you as anything else."

You finally turn to fix him with a watery stare, and find him looking back at you with such solitary focus that you practically wither beneath his gaze. For the first time, you notice that Baelor's eyes are two different colors. The castle is not brightly lit inside, and you have never been close enough to him to notice it, until now. One brown, one violet, they lend even more of a sense of mystery to his handsome features. You have a mind to mention it— you open your mouth to tell him that they're beautiful, but then you think better of it.

He's the Prince of Dragonstone. The Hand of the King. There is nothing that could bring you together.

Baelor holds a hand out to you, his palm facing upward. You peer down at it for a moment before placing your hand delicately in his. Baelor's thumb gently brushes your knuckles, his hand practically dwarfing your own. His palm is so warm, and when he places his other hand atop yours, your skin feels engulfed in flames.

"However," Baelor says, and locks you in his stare, "I can believe that rumors abound. It is an unfortunate effect of being highborn that many will speak on what they know nothing about. But rumors seldom bear any truth. They reflect nothing of your true nature. I assure you that House Targaryen, Daeron included, will understand that."

You blink down at your hand, enveloped in both of his. Daeron. Of course, all of this is to convince you not to lose hope, that Daeron will change his mind, that Daeron will decide to marry you.

"I… thank you for your kindness, Your Grace," you respond, for lack of anything else to say. You know that he's being as fair in his judgment as possible, but he has a duty to the King and to House Targaryen. Gently, you withdraw your hand from his as you add, "Unfortunately, I regret that my family are displeased with Daeron's refusal. I understand that they have designs on leaving King's Landing in two days' time. While I know that both you and Prince Maekar are quite persuasive, I doubt that it provides ample time for Daeron to change his mind. I imagine he wanted to refuse me the moment he saw me."

"Why do you imagine that?"

You look out across Blackwater Bay, thinking back to your first meeting with Daeron. When you curtsyed, the princeling looked as though he was going to either throw up or faint, or both. At the time, you blamed it on the drink. Now, you're not entirely sure.

"I believe he finds me ugly."

Baelor huffs a short laugh through his nose, so quiet and subtle that you would not have caught it if you weren't sitting so close to him. You turn to look at him, appalled, and find him with a soft, reserved smile on his face.

"Well, don't laugh."

"Apologies, my lady." Still, Baelor's mouth curves up at the edges as though he just can't help himself. You watch him tongue the inside of his cheek, half-amused. "I mean no jest. I just find it rather unlikely, to be frank."

"I can't think of another reason why," you explain, finally letting your true emotions ring through. You're hurt. You had given Daeron no reason to dislike you; you had been agreeable and good-natured whenever you spoke to him. "He sent his refusal via courier. He wanted not to speak to me, and he has been quite avoidant throughout my entire visit."

"It's true," Baelor replies smoothly. "Daeron has behaved abominably. But I do know him to be kind, and mannerly when given the opportunity."

You had given Daeron plenty of opportunities. You don't want to argue with Baelor, but you think that he is viewing your situation only from the position of a Prince of the Realm.

"How many hours in the day are there? How many days in a week? Daeron could have come to me during any of them, and I would have recieved him. Kind and mannerly though he may be, Your Grace," you say, looking over at Baelor Breakspear with a challenging fire in your eyes, "no one can force a man to want, any more than they can force a horse to drink."

Baelor's expression remains frustratingly unreadable. You gaze into his mismatched eyes as though they will tell you something, anything about what he's thinking, but there is nothing there to betray him.

"Daeron would be a fool not to want you," Baelor tells you, his voice low and edged with a finality that makes you want to take it for fact. "Whether he is or is not, I cannot say. Only time will tell."

"Do you say that as a man? Or as the Hand of the King?" you ask him more pointedly than you should.

"Both."

You gaze at each other for a long time, long enough that the breeze picks up and sweeps your hair up in its gust. You watch Baelor's jaw work— as small of a gesture though it is, it is the only thing about him that tells you he's contemplating something. He is no open book, your Prince, and it frustrates you as much as it seduces you. It sets you daydreaming, watching him openly in the cool evening air as his mouth curves vaguely toward a frown. Down by his knee, he worries the silver ring on his finger.

Then, Baelor lifts his hand, and with a touch so featherlight it's almost inconsequential, he brushes your hair away from your brow and tucks it behind your ear. His skin barely even meets yours— you can explain it away as him just being chivalrous, just keeping your hair from flying into your eyes. But it's enough to make your heart lurch up into your throat, nonetheless.

"It's late," you mutter, now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the garden is bathed in shadow. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to regain your composure as you drop your gaze.

"It is."

"It's getting dark."

"Yes," Baelor agrees, then finally looks away from you. He squints out across the bay, staring into the distance at the absence of sun. "The dragon's breath will be blooming, now."

"Dragon's breath?" You shake your head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I have not heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. It's a night-blooming flower, native to Dorne. There is a crop of them not far off, if I recall. Come, I can show it to you." Baelor stands and offers you his hand once again, and this time, you do not hesitate to take it.

He leads you, arm-in-arm, down the garden path toward the godswood. Just as the treeline begins to thicken in the gloaming, Baelor brings you to a stop.

"Just there," he murmurs, guiding you to investigate a shrub low to the ground, littered with trumpet-shaped red blooms. As he stoops to pluck one from the shrub, he says, "Dragon's breath. They are sweetly fragranced, but do not be mistaken. They can be quite deadly if eaten."

"I'll make sure not to put them in my tea, then," you tell him as you take the flower he extends to you. It smells slightly of jasmine and woodsmoke when you hold it beneath your nose, careful not to let it touch your lips. "It's lovely."

"Yes," Baelor says, watching you closely. His eyes linger on yours for an extended moment, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Then, a serene look crosses his face. "It is said that the First Men would ingest it to convene with the old gods. Whether or not this is true remains to be seen, but I would not advise it, at any rate."

"No, I'd imagine not." You spend a second twirling the little red blossom, the same shade as the red thread in his doublet, the colors of House Targaryen. Quite suddenly, you observe, "They're your favorite."

Baelor is quiet for a moment. "What makes you so certain?"

"You thought of them first. You could have shown me anything in the entire Keep, but you showed me these. Obviously, they're important to you." You peer up at him, and you can't bite back your smirk. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Baelor huffs a small laugh, the second one you've managed from him. The sound of it warms the pit of your stomach. "You're rather sure of yourself."

"That isn't a 'no.'"

"Mm. It's not a 'yes,' either."

You crack a grin. "Okay. Don't tell me, then. But I'm right."

This time, when Baelor tilts his head downward, you catch him smiling, a flash of teeth and a dimple indenting his bearded cheek. It is imperfect, crooked and so very human. He hides it well, but you're able to see it before he gentles his face into a careful mask once again.

He doesn't know that you see it. It will remain your secret, a fascination to look back on when you're in need of comfort. You made the Prince of Dragonstone smile. A real smile.

"Thank you, Your Grace," you tell him quietly, still pinching the blossom in your fingers. "For your company. And your hospitality."

"The pleasure is mine." Baelor looks as though he may leave the conversation there, but then he adds, "One more word before we part, my lady, if you please?"

"Certainly." You step a touch closer to him. A cricket sounds somewhere in the brush. The night is beginning to wake around you, the longer you linger with the Prince. You wonder if you could draw the moment out long enough to see the dawn.

Baelor does not seem overly concerned about it. "I should like to extend an invitation to your family, if you believe they would be willing. Perhaps, rather than departing King's Landing in two days' time, they would agree to remain another fortnight?"

You blink at him. Another two weeks? For what, exactly?

Baelor answers your unasked question, as though he can see directly into your mind. "So that we may have ample time for Daeron to correct his mistake. Of course."

"Of course," you echo. You feel clean out of air in your lungs, stunned for something to say. "Your Grace, I— I would say that my family would have to answer that invitation for themselves. I cannot speak for the lot."

He affords you the most patient of smiles. "I would like to hear your answer before all, if you don't mind."

"Oh."

Another two weeks at the Red Keep. Two weeks for the rumors to spread, to converge and morph into even worse ones. Two weeks for Daeron to insult you by ignoring you, tarnish your reputation by refusing you a second time. Conversely, two weeks for Daeron to decide that he may tolerate your company and accept you.

You look down at the flower in your fingers. Two weeks to search for the sight of Baelor in the halls and in the councils. Two weeks to speak to him again. Two weeks to indulge in that wickedest of fantasies: that you might fall in love with Baelor Breakspear.

"Yes," you tell Baelor, quiet enough that it threatens to be spirited away on the breeze. "Yes, if my family is willing. I would be glad to stay another fortnight, at Your Grace's pleasure."

Baelor nods at you graciously. "Then I will see to your family's response in the morning. Thank you for your acceptance, my lady."

"Thank you for your invitation." You tilt your face towards the sky. "It is quite dark. I fear that I will have trouble on my way back, should I remain any longer."

"Indeed. The fault is mine, entirely. Allow me to walk you to the holdfast."

You make the journey back to the holdfast in comfortable silence. You find that you do not feel even remotely unsafe as long as Baelor is near; otherwise, you would never chance to linger outside the holdfast, even within the castle walls, after dark. But Baelor's presence is a relief. You would trust him with your life. You would probably trust him with even more than that, given the chance.

"My Prince."

You pause in the golden torchlight, only bright enough to illuminate the bridge over the dry moat. Down in the pit there is nothing but blackness, and a sense that if you stepped too close it would suck you in. Turning to Baelor, you have the dragon's breath blossom still in your fingers, and lift it to your face to take in its scent again— sweet, smoky, like a garden aflame. You can understand why he is taken with this particular flower.

Baelor watches you expectantly, a respectable distance away again, as though every part of your conversation this evening had been a diplomatic mission. Cleaning up his nephew's mess. Doing what is right for the Realm.

The idea rattles you. It cuts you deep and hits something within that you thought you'd left in your girlhood— covetousness. The desire to be shown favoritism, attention. To be wanted, not simply tolerated. You are not a girl anymore, but the King's Hand seems to bring her out of you as though it were second nature. You feel the urge to try to bring the boy out of him, which may be an insurmountable task. He is a prince, a warrior and a lord of refined poise and sophistication. But you have never been one to shy away from a challenge.

You step closer to him. Baelor does not move away, but follows you with his eyes, a reserved expression on his face. Perhaps he is trying to anticipate what you may do, but he does not show any signs of backing down. You imagine that he wouldn't, even if you threw yourself at him unceremoniously. If you kissed him like you desperately want to, open-mouthed and wet.

But you are not improper, or desperate. You are a lady, and well-versed in flattery and elegant flirtation. You take the dragon's breath, and you tuck the green stem into the gap between the silk fabric of his doublet and the Hand of the King pin that adorns his chest. It flares up from the pin, as though the fingers of the hand were holding it tight to his heart.

"Keep this safe," you say, your smile hiding your desirous stare. Your fingers rest against his chest for just a second longer than is proper, but you pull them away quickly enough, you think. "I would hate for it to go to waste."

Baelor's eyes soften. "Certainly, my lady."

"You are quite a wonderful man, my Prince." Your innermost thoughts become physical things, they turn balmy on your tongue. "If you may pardon my saying so. I have wanted to for some time, but… the opportunity did not present itself."

Baelor's brows raise just the slightest, but he does not admonish you. "I thank you for the compliment, my lady. You are very kind, indeed." A pause, a breath on the wind. "Lovely."

You stay there, held captive in his gaze. One violet, one brown. Finally, in spite of your sense of self preservation, you tell him, "Your eyes… They really are very beautiful, you know."

You do not wait for his answer or reaction before you bid him goodnight, and all but flee into the holdfast. And so, you are not able to see the way he watches after you with a lingering smile, and a longing gaze in those very eyes.

Present

Baelor sends Maester Florin away with an order to return on the morrow, and to alert the servants that you should not be disturbed. It is not without your notice that after he ushers the maester out the chamber door, he bolts it with a final clang that reverberates in your oversensitive ears.

You lay on the mussed bedsheets, curled into a ball. You are sideways in the bed; there is no point in putting yourself to rights, because the moment the next wave of pain hits you will become a writhing animal once again, a slave to the torrents of agony. Through the stringy, damp strands of your loose hair, you watch Baelor's back.

He leans against the door with both hands pressed flat to the wood, head bowed in thought. Or, is it distress? Perhaps both. You don't quite know what to make of his reaction to your situation, at all.

What you do know is that you feel a wave of heat flash through your body so fast and so sharp that all of your muscles tense at once, and you yelp from the blast of pain. Your head pounds as though your heartbeat originates from it.

Baelor turns at the sound of your anguish, and his face pinches at the sight of you, a small, trembling heap on the bed. "I will fetch Daeron."

"No."

"My lady, please."

He approaches the end of the bed, but you can't do more than follow the sight of his face with your eyes, until it passes too far into your periphery, and you must drop them to his belt. The sight of Baelor's belt inches away from your face is not something that helps your situation at all, however, and so you shut your eyes before your body manages to torment you further.

"Daeron is… unreliable, yes. And irresponsible. I know that you harbor wounded feelings towards him at the moment, but…" Baelor hesitates. Clearly, he knows that he is not making the best case for his nephew. His eyes roam your disconsolate form, and then he finishes, "But he is your best chance at survival. I am certain that he will be agreeable, at least in this pursuit."

"Do you even know if his cock works?"

Baelor is eerily silent. You don't open your eyes to look at him until you feel the mattress shift, and you find that he's sat on the foot of the bed, his back to you once again. His hands loosely grip the edge of the mattress on either side of him, and his posture betrays no real emotion. It is only when you notice the redness of his ears that you realize your words must have unnerved him.

"I would not know, my lady," Baelor answers quietly, after a moment. "Daeron has sired no bastards, as far as I am aware. His drunkenness may prove an issue, but questionable odds are better than none."

"I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me."

"He is to be your betrothed." Baelor's words are flat, even. Clinical. "I understand that if he had not refused you, then perhaps you would not have resorted to… other methods—"

"I didn't take the fucking thing for him," you finally snap, gritting your teeth against the pain throbbing in your head and in your abdomen.

Baelor's voice surrenders to something inquisitive. "Then, why did you take it?"

Another moment of silence. Baelor is too still, his hand pressed flat to the mattress in front of your face. You stare, unblinking, at the glint of the silver ring on his finger, bearing the insignia of House Targaryen.

"I thought… perhaps there was someone else for me." You take in a shallow breath. "Although, I think my rash decision making outweighs my judgment."

Baelor turns and gives you the most indulgent smile you think you've ever received, even though there is immense pain behind his eyes.

"If you will not have Daeron… perhaps I can call another for you. Ser Duncan may be willing," he suggests, his voice just above a whisper. "Ser Duncan is a good and honorable man. I trust him with my life, and I would trust him with yours."

You stare at him in shock for a moment. "Oh… Oh, yes, of course. Ser Duncan. Ser Duncan. Why didn't I think of that? Ser Duncan the Tall." Baelor remains stoic, nonplussed at your sarcasm. Your stomach cramps up as you blather, "Or, better yet, why not call Ser Donnel as well? The entire King's Guard, even? Drag me down to the Great Yard, maybe they can take turns, pass me off—"

"Enough," Baelor finally snaps, shooting you a stern look. "I will hear no more of that sort of talk from you."

"Or what? Your Grace," you return with a wicked glare. "I will not be foisted off to the first man you think of."

Lit up with the fury of a thousand suns now, and sweating enough to show it, you push yourself up on wobbly limbs and tumble off of the bed onto the bearskin rug on the floor. You land on your aching stomach with a loud, "OOMF," and all the air painfully leaves your lungs.

"Stop this, now." Baelor sounds weary, as though he's bored of a game you're playing.

"No. Leave me." You crawl clumsily across the rug towards the chamber window. "I'm not going to lay there, dying in agony and— and losing my mind. I'd rather throw myself out of the tower. Let me die with quiet dignity and grace."

"Quiet dignity and grace," he eventually repeats, incredulous. He hasn't even gotten up from the end of the bed, but just watches you, fascinated with your display. "You know, I fathered two boys. Theatrics don't impress me, especially when negotiating."

"Yes, remind me again of how you're so amazing at everything, like— fathering sons, and— negotiating," you growl, huffing with the exertion of your endeavor. "Because you're— you're so fucking perfect and chivalrous. The Hammer. With your— fucking— giant, veiny— host of Dornish spearmen."

"My, you're verbose."

It's only when you threaten to tip the table by the window, as you attempt to haul yourself up to your feet, that Baelor rises. He reaches you in three quick strides, snatches you about the waist and throws you over his shoulder, just to carry you back to the bed. Your small amount of spite-fueled energy spent, you merely hang on him like a sack of straw.

Baelor lays you down so that your head hits the pillow, your hands thrown above your head. "Are you quite finished?" he asks sharply, looming over you, his eyes boring into yours. His jaw set, he states, "I am trying to save your life."

"And I am no one's whore." You stare defiantly up into the eyes of Baelor Targaryen, willing him to yield.

And, to your surprise, he does. His eyes soften, his jaw untensing as he lets out a slow, defeated sigh. "No, you are not."

He sits back, his hands still pressed into the mattress on either side of you. You miss his proximity like a lost limb.

"Forgive me. I have been presumptuous in my suggestions. I would never force you into any situation against your will or desires." A pause. "But I cannot sit idle and let you die. I beg you, my lady. Name someone, anyone, who you would trust in this matter. Someone who you would accept. I will bring them to you without question."

You gaze up at him tearfully, and feel another wave of heat blooming in your hands and feet. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and take in the sight of him, so poised and regal, even when faced with an unmanageable task.

"Baelor."

Your hand— small, clammy with sweat and shaky from the fatigue in your limbs— reaches out and finds his— large, warm, grounding. You pull at his hand, and he lets you. His head turns just slightly, watching you as you cradle his large palm in your two hands and press it firmly against your chest, just below your collarbone.

Whatever this magic is, be it gods sent or gods cursed, it reacts the second his skin touches yours. Your entire body sparks alive with sensation— but rather than the unrelenting heat and pain of the poison coursing through your veins, it's solace. You let out a soft moan at the feeling, like gentle sunlight flooding through your body the moment that his fingers lace with yours.

"My Prince," you whisper shakily, and feel his fingers flex just slightly against your chest. Your heart pounds against your ribcage so hard that you know he feels it. He can probably feel the unbelievable heat radiating off of you. "It's— I feel so much pain. I hear the voices of the guards on the ramparts and I taste— I taste the salt from the sweat on your brow. I feel as though I will rip in two when the waves come, and nothing has made it better except— except you. When you touch me. Your hands on me… it's you."

Baelor is quiet, listening to your rambling speech. Tears stream from your eyes. It is both a relief and a terror to confess what you feel to him.

Then, Baelor removes his hand from your chest and brings it to cup the side of your face. The tenderness of his touch strips you to the bone. You feel like you're breathing only for him, like he commands the very air that gives your body function. His thumb brushes your damp hair away from your face, wiping away your tears with it, and he gazes down at you with such care, such affection.

He says your name softly, but there's a touch of sadness in it. He closes his eyes, breathes in long and slow through his nose. "I cannot do what you ask. You must name another."

"Please." You make a frail noise in the back of your throat, feeling as though you may begin sobbing in a moment. You shake your head, lifting one hand to clutch at Baelor's wrist.

"I cannot," he insists, although he doesn't pull his hand away from you. You don't know if he is bearing in mind what you told him— that his touch is the only thing that keeps the pain from tormenting you. There is palpable tension in his expression, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line. "I am the King's Hand and heir to the throne. If you were to be gotten with my child, it would cause a scandal."

"I am already rumored to be pregnant, remember? House Targaryen has weathered far worse than a bastard child," you remark weakly.

"But you have not. I would not dishonor you in such a way." When you pout and look as though you may argue, he continues, "Whatever rumors circulate about you, we need not give them merit."

"So you would have me carry another man's bastard, instead?"

Baelor snaps his mouth shut, his expression turning suddenly guarded. He makes as though he may pull his hand back as he turns away from you, and your stomach drops.

"Baelor, no."

You clap your own hand over his, turning to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. On instinct, you plant your lips against his skin, and it's as though something savage bursts alive within you. Some greedy, desperate thing takes hold as your eyes drift shut, with each breath tasting the warmth and spice of his skin as though your tongue were flush to it.

"Don't let go," you whisper into the cradle of his hand. "If you let go of me the pain will return, and I can't— I can't bear it anymore, Baelor, I can't—"

"I know. I won't let you go, darling." He sounds strained even as he reassures you, but he doesn't remove his hand.

There is a long silence, while you practically lose yourself in the feeling of just… giving in. You relax into the glowing feeling, hot pleasure sweeping through your body, up your limbs and into your core, replacing any pain that had been there before. It's glorious. It distracts you, pulls your mind away from the reality of the situation— that you cannot simply have him hold your face and hope that the poison works its way out of your system on its own.

Without meaning to, you drag your parted lips along his fingers, as though exploring them just with your mouth. His fingers are so long. Slender and dextrous, calloused from hours of sword training. You feel each bump and ridge against your mouth and you're trying so hard not to sink your teeth in. Your lower lip catches on the band of his silver ring and draws back, letting the smallest flash of your teeth graze his skin.

You hear his breath catch, and your eyes fly open, suddenly aware of what you're doing. Baelor watches you from the corner of his eye as you press your face into his touch, his jaw locked up tight, his free hand a fist where it rests on his knee.

You feel as though you should apologize, but you can't bring yourself to. Apologize for what? For desiring him? Wanting him? He's so handsome. His differently colored eyes study you, a painful reminder of it. You stare back at him, imagining what it would be like to trace his face with your lips, as well.

"You told me once that Daeron would be a fool not to want me," you say, and you take a purposefully slow breath, because if you don't you may start heaving for air. "Are you a fool, my Prince?"

Baelor lets out a soft sigh, and looks quickly away from you. His fingers twitch slightly against your cheek. He's silent for a long time, long enough that you begin to fear you've misread him, confused his kindness for something deeper.

But then he tilts his head down, and without looking at you, he says quietly, "I am not, my lady. Though, whether my desire in itself is foolish, I have no idea. I may be doomed for it."

"Then… perhaps we are both doomed," you admit, your eyes practically dancing over his features. "I can't think around my desire for you. All I know is that you— you are all that I want in the world. Scandals and suspicious potions be damned."

"Gods above." You watch Baelor roll his eyes toward the ceiling. When he returns his eyes to you, it's with a look of solemn admiration. He strokes his knuckles along the curve of your jaw. "I'm beginning to believe you exist simply to torment me."

You allow yourself to fashion a wobbly smile. "Me? Torment the Breakspear? Never."

Baelor huffs a quiet laugh, looking away from you in a manner that is almost… shy. You can see his jaw flex beneath his short beard and a rosy flush come over his face, and—

You just made Baelor blush.

You lay with that, watching him in the silence. His hand drifts from grazing your jaw to resting flat against your collarbone again, and you lift your own to trace your fingers languidly along the back of his palm. You can hear his breath come out shaky at the light contact, and it's just enough to give you the clarity to really, truly think about this.

His hands on you could be enough, you realize. You practically came the moment that he touched you, and if this magic can just be expelled from your system by an orgasm, it might be that he doesn't need to do anything more than just… put his hands on you. It feels good enough as it is— the heat of him, the smell and the feeling of him, are all adding to the pleasurable fire burning in your core. But, if you felt his hands go… down…

"Baelor."

His name comes out of your mouth faster than it should, and he snaps his eyes to you with a look of sudden concern, as though he expects to find something wrong. But nothing really is wrong— at least nothing that hasn't been wrong to begin with.

"What if—" You bite your lip, trying hard not to move your hips in any way that could startle him off. Your cunt throbs just at the thought of feeling his hands on your body with no barrier. "What if you just… touched me?"

Baelor seems to think your question over, searching your face for any kind of deception. But you simply stare at him openly, your eyes pleading, heart pounding as you feel his thumb stroke once over the hollow of your throat.

And then, his eyes drift down. They linger on the swell of your breast, heaving under the thin, practically sheer linen of your chemise. Everything is too intimate, too bright in the mid-afternoon sun slanting through the open window, illuminating you. Gods, it feels like you're already naked before him with the way he just stares, undressing you in his mind. It hits you directly between the legs, and you clench your thighs together to stave off the rush of arousal.

Your breath hitches, and Baelor snaps his eyes back up to your face, as though he's just remembered himself. "I am touching you."

"Y-You—" Your breath hiccups in your chest with how hard you're trying not to gasp for air. "You don't know how cl-close I am to— to—"

You clap your hands over your face, feeling a flush of heat throughout your body that has nothing to do with his hand on you. It's hard enough to be begging him for some kind of stimulation, but to tell him how close you are to an orgasm just from his touch is mortifying.

Not for the first time, Baelor seems to be able to see inside your mind without you voicing your thoughts. "Tell me," he plies gently, his thumb sweeping across your damp skin. He remains so composed, even when you feel like dissolving into thin air. "What is it that you feel… when I touch you?"

He's still hesitant, but his voice holds a curiosity that he hadn't made manifest before now. Everything in you winds up tight at the sound. He's not just indulging you, he wants to know. You know that he's trying to be proper— Baelor is a man of restraint, of infinite patience and regard for honor and decency. You know that he's clinging to his morals even while trying to rationalize the problem set before him.

But he bolted the chamber door, you remember. Behind your closed eyelids, beyond the sound of your heavy breathing and his, more measured, you can hear the clang of the bolt reverberate in your ears all over again. His hands pressed to the solid oak, his head bowed in thought. Why would he have locked you in together? Unless…

"It feels like sunrise after a frost." Your voice is muffled behind your hands, because you refuse to look at him while you say such things. You don't think you could bear to see his face, as you confess, "It is as though all of this poison in me changes, and it becomes heavenly. I feel… when you touch me… as though my body is not my own, but yours to— to do with as you please. To mold to your whim. And I would let you, my lord, I— I would have you do anything that you desired to me, and I would ask you only to do it again. I could glut myself on your touch and it would not be enough, it undoes me in ways I cannot explain, I… You set your hand upon my back and I thought… I thought I was going to c-cum—"

You choke off on a quiet, humiliated sob. So there it is, out in the open now, with no way to take it back. Baelor is still frustratingly silent, but you refuse to pull your hands away from your face to look at him, because you can't find it within yourself to be clever or brave anymore.

"You wouldn't even need to— to deflower me," you continue, blathering now, unleashing any thought that comes to mind as a way to fill the silence. "It would hardly even be anything that would be significant to anyone, just— just lay your hand upon me, and I might— I could—"

"Where?"

All things stop at once. Your thoughts, your breath, your heartbeat. You freeze up like he has just found a way to completely obliterate you with one word. You take a sharp inhale to kickstart your lungs again, and hesitantly curl your fingers away from your eyes to look at him.

Baelor's eyes are transfixed on your face, unwavering, his expression open and earnest. He waits for you to answer him, but when it becomes apparent that you can't, he supplements, "Show me where you would have me touch you."

You consider him for just a second, just long enough for the gravity of his words to register. He wants you to show him. It occurs to you to tell him that he could touch you anywhere beneath your chemise— your stomach, your hip, your knee— and it may yield the same results. But you don't.

You take Baelor's hand, the one resting on your chest so steadily, and you move it. He allows you to, watching you all the time, the pupils of his mismatched eyes blown wide. With one hand you pull at the fabric of your chemise, tugging it up your legs, while you guide his own beneath it. As soon as his hand touches the plush skin of your thigh, you both gasp in tandem— but for different reasons.

For you, it's the burst of sensation, the sharp arcing pleasure that shoots up your spine and grips at something tight and cruel in your core, making you stifle a moan. You were right. The proximity of his touch to where you want it most makes all the difference— you fist at the gathered fabric in your hand and try not to rock your hips toward his touch, but your pussy throbs threateningly at the heat of him so close to it.

Baelor is simply startled. His brow shoots up, his jaw slack as he breathlessly murmurs, "Oh, my sweet girl."

You're drenched down your thighs, a fact that you had failed to mention to him. His fingers slip through the wetness there, feeling it against your skin, and his breath leaves him in shock.

"I— I wasn't like this, before." You take a shaky inhale, and tremors travel through your entire body. "Before you."

It's as though something within him cracks, and all of his inner turmoil is laid bare before you, etched across his features like a carving on stone. The fear, the worry, the frustration, all manifest in his pinched brow and the dip of his mouth, the tremble of his breath. But there is something else there, too— raw desire, sharp as a knife's edge. It's in his eyes, in the way that his shoulders draw tight, in the set of his jaw. It's in his hands, the way that his fingers shift and press into the pillowy flesh of your thigh.

Baelor's thumb sweeps along the curve of your inner thigh, the same affectionate, instinctive gesture that it had been as he laid his hand on your chest. But on this part of your body it is more suggestive, and perhaps ill-advised. His thumb glides too close to the core of you and, quite by accident, he discovers that you are bare of any smallclothes.

Your gasp is sudden and loud. The brush of his finger against your bare sex is enough to make you jump, your hand clamping down on his wrist desperately as pleasure dances like pure dragonflame over your nerves. Your cunt pulses, and a feeble moan breaks from you. "Baelor, please."

He halts, and something changes in his expression. Call it the end of resolve, or a breaking point. There is no hiding anything from him now, you know. He has seen everything, knows what you are laying with.

"No more begging," Baelor finally says, and it's a gentle order. This man who has led armies, who has killed and fought to defend his realm, speaks to you with infinite tenderness. "I have you now, darling. I am for you. You need not beg anymore."

I am for you. He is your knight, upholding his vows, taking up his sword to defend you.

You shiver to feel his grip on your thigh tighten just a bit, a final test of his resolve before he moves it. There is a shift beneath the white linen of your chemise, and then Baelor's knuckle drags slowly through your soaked folds.

Your breath stalls in your chest as your mouth drops open. His touch turns you golden. Your body seems to light up from the inside, fresh heat blooming low in your stomach. Heart pounding in your chest, you stutter, "Oh, fuck— fuck, Baelor, this— this is too much, you don't have to—"

He shushes you, and the look in his eyes threatens to undo you more than his finger tracing a line through your cunt. There is a fire in his eyes that was not there before. The fire of a dragon, of a Targaryen. His gaze feels almost like a physical caress as he says, "Hush, now. I do this willingly."

Fuck. His voice is deep, rich and soft as velvet as he stares at you with that unwavering intensity, touching you between your legs. Your Prince. Touching you between your legs. It completely arrests your ability to think. He is slow, methodical in his movements as he is with everything; he glides the length of his finger through your pussy without rush, letting you feel each bump and ridge as they pass over your clit.

With your heightened senses, you can hear how wet you are, and the salacious sound of his fingers gliding through the mess you've made is enough to drive you up the wall. He begins drawing circles around your clit with the tip of his finger, and you melt into the mattress. You feel as though your pleasure and your need have turned you inside out, bitten chunks from your sensibilities.

He's too beautiful. The thought plagues you more and more. Baelor is too handsome, too competent with his strong hands and too gentle with his lust-roughened words. Gods above, you feel like you could cum— you should have cum by now, with how badly your cunt spasms under his attention, how hypersensitive your clit is as he continues tracing languid circles around it.

Then Baelor dips down and sinks a single finger into you, where you leak and ache desperately for him. Your thighs widen to give him more room, and he takes it, pushes in to the knuckle and gives you a practiced crook of his finger.

A sound rips from you— something animalistic and completely unfamiliar, a moan from the very depths of your fevered being. You tighten a fist in the tangled bedsheets and turn your face to the side, trying to hide from him while he makes you unravel at the seams.

"Look at me, darling." At the hushed rasp of his voice, your cunt clamps down hard on his finger. He pauses, halting all movement until you turn your head to open your eyes to him.

What you find in his face is enough to move the endless soul in you. You have spent two weeks etching Baelor's face into your memory— his careful, poised demeanor, the way he steadies his expression to keep it neutral, tactful. You know his cautious smiles, and you know his deeper one, the one that you hold tight to your chest like a secret. You know his kindness, and you know his disappointment.

But you've never seen this. This unbridled lust, his every feature touched by the amount of desire he has for you. He gazes at you like he feels everything you do, and more. Baelor inclines his head, and he appears so composed, as he always does, but his chest is heaving— you can see it and you can hear it, in the rattle of his inhale, in the obvious rise and fall of his shoulders.

"I will have you look at me when I do this," Baelor tells you, his eyes so dark and hungry that the very glint in them is wicked. It unnerves you, runs quick and hot through your veins. "I will have you see all that I give, and know it is yours to keep. Only yours. Do you understand?"

You swallow hard. "Yes, my lord."

"Baelor." His voice is quiet when he corrects you.

"Baelor."

He flexes his finger within you and your face crumples, your thighs shaking where they lay spread on the mattress. His free hand comes to rest on your thigh and makes to pull your legs further apart, prevents you from moving it back to center. It is not a rough or demanding move, but it conveys his message. Stay. Don't move away.

Baelor whispers something in a language you don't understand— High Valyrian, most like, but it makes no difference that you cannot speak it. It sounds warm, seductive in his throat, and a tremble rolls through your body at the sound of it.

Soft moans fall from your lips as he adds a second finger beside the first, and your hips nearly leave the bed. You take him in so easily, a quiet breath of disbelief leaves him, and he shifts, giving you strokes that have you fighting to keep your eyes open and fixed on him. A gentle back and forth, a hot press against the wall of you. Your body doesn't know how to react— hot then cold, trembling and then still, rocking against him and then backing away as though it's too much and not enough all at once.

His silver signet ring grazes you, hard to offset his softness. You're so close, you can taste your release on the back of your tongue like the entire ocean is rising within you. You grab at the pillow beside your head, ripping at it between fingers that don't know what to do with themselves. Your eyes clench shut at the sudden onslaught, your head tilted back on the pillow.

"Look at me," Baelor reminds you, his voice gently commanding.

Quick as he says it, you snap your eyes open again and find his fixed on you, dark and fathomless. There is a sudden surge, a quickening in your breath. "Oh, gods, Baelor—"

It looms like some wretched, evil thing come to destroy you. You snatch at his forearm frantically, trying to warn him, but unable to form words.

"I know. I feel it," he soothes, a palm moving sweetly against your thigh. He squeezes you there, a reassuring touch even while his other hand takes you apart. "You don't have to hold on anymore. I've got you. I've got you."

Your hips lurch towards him, your vision whiting out. His fingers hit a spot both perfect and devastating inside of you, and your mind's focus is whittled down to a fine point, aimed at him.

"Cum for me, lovely girl," Baelor orders. So you do.

He remains constant. Even when the wave rises and breaks within you, even when you writhe and let out a ragged cry, the sound torn from a hidden, previously unknown part of you. Through the seemingly unending torrents, Baelor remains your anchor. He does not change. He does not move. He does not let you go.

You turn pliant in the aftershocks. He gentles his movements— he does not stop them altogether, but turns them lighter, slower. His thumb brushes over your clit, and you jolt hard enough to convince him to finally withdraw his hand.

Baelor watches you closely, his darkened eyes focused on yours, but that familiar tenderness is returning, creeping across his features. The span of his fingers curves around the meat of your thigh, measured breaths leaving parted lips. His other hand is drenched with your fluids, still held cautiously between your legs as though hesitant to pull back entirely.

"How do you feel?" He asks then, softly.

You blink at him, and then up at the canopy over the bed. You're still shaking, your brain fizzling and humming from the orgasm he'd given you. "I don't… I don't know, I— that's the first time anyone has ever— done that…"

Baelor stays quiet for a beat, a small, affectionate smile curling the corners of his mouth. Then, he clarifies, "Do you think that it worked?"

"Oh." Yes, that. You had somehow forgotten that there is an ulterior motive to all of this, that it is not just sex for the sake of sex. "We… We could check?"

The words leave your mouth meekly. You don't want him to let you go. You don't want him to go away. Yes, you want the poison to be gone from your system, but you are greedy. You want him to stay with you and take you until morning. You want him to keep looking at you like that, like he'd swallow you whole, bones and all.

Unfortunately, Baelor listens. He slowly lifts his hands away from you, leaving you entirely. For a few calm seconds, nothing happens. Your body is still awash with the remnants of your orgasm, your skin still tingling with the memory of his touch. You lay there for a moment, thinking, was that it?

But then you look at Baelor again. He stares down at his hand— the one drenched in your arousal. It shines in the mid-afternoon light, strings of it threading between the parting of his fingers as he… feels it. Rubs his fingers against each other to test the silkiness, pulls them apart just to watch it web across the gap in thin strands.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he returns his gaze to your face. And he lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck your wetness from them. His eyes, amber and violet, trained on your expression until they flutter shut, and he groans.

"Oh— gods on fire."

Your whole body tenses up with the fury of it. The pain. It assaults you worse than before, with a ferocity that scares you. There's so much of it that it is not enough to scream— you can't even breathe for it. You curl into yourself and roll, the muscles of your stomach and core pulling taut.

"No. No no no— Baelor." You whimper, blindly throwing your hand back to grab at him. You find a wrist— left or right, you don't know— and pull so that his hand smacks down onto your flank with a lewd sounding slap. "Didn't work. It didn't— fuck."

"All right. All right, my love. Come here." Baelor's hand slides around your waist to gather you into his lap. You slide across the bedsheets with your spine bent into a crescent, knees pulled to your chest. "I've got you. I'm right here, just relax." You jerk involuntarily in his hold, an elbow catching him in the ribs. He grunts, adjusting his arm around you, curling himself over you like a shield. "Relax. Relax."

You will the tension in your muscles to release one by one. You imagine yourself absorbing into him, your head resting on his strong thigh as you allow your body to feel him. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the distracting warmth radiating from the space between his legs. The smell of him there, strong and sweetly arousing. The taste of something on the back of your tongue— sweat and something muskier, something more masculine.

Him. The taste of him, through silk, through smallclothes. Your head spins, and you fight not to turn your head further into his lap, not to nuzzle into the crotch of his breeches and just breathe him into your lungs.

"Stupid fucking sex potion," you mumble angrily once the pain recedes. "Secret ingredient. Bullshit."

"All right," Baelor says again to quiet you, laying his hand on the crown of your head soothingly. You imagine that he understands what you're feeling, though, because he doesn't argue.

"What do we do?" Your voice is thin, a barely-there thing in the quiet.

"We continue."

You turn your head. Baelor is gazing down at you, eyes glittering with affection. He exudes a calmness that you cannot feel, even though your overwrought body relaxes into him. "You want to… continue?"

"We need not stop at one." Baelor pets your head, shrugs a shoulder. "I wouldn't, even under normal conditions."

You stare at him, aghast. "Your Grace."

He gives you a wry smile. "We don't know what this 'secret ingredient' is. Perhaps it needs… more. We can continue until it takes." Another pause. "You'll have to forgive me for my choice of words. It's my first time experiencing the… joys of a sex potion, as well."

You snort incredulously, trailing your fingers along his clothed forearm. "And what if it… takes?"

You don't need to elaborate. What if you become pregnant with his child, like he suggested you might? What happens if you bear the heir apparent a bastard, and still end up married to his nephew? What if you cause a scandal?

"Then… we continue," he repeats. "Come what may." Baelor takes your hand in his, presses a kiss to the back of your palm. You are filled with so much adoration for him that it almost wounds you. It sets up a home in your body, right below your heart. "Whatever happens, it makes no difference. You may have anything that you want from me."

"Even your hand?"

"Especially that."

"In marriage?" Your chest tightens up in anticipation. You gaze up at him, willing him to accept you, clutching his hand like he might pull it away, recoil in disgust. If he were to turn you down now, you think that it might just kill you before the poison does.

Perhaps he feels how hard you tense up in your nervousness. He pulls back just the slightest bit and peers at you, taking in your expression, before his own turns into something open, genuine. His eyes crease at the corners as he traces a single finger down the part in your hair, and he replies, "Yes. I will marry you, darling girl. I should have, the moment I was able to. I should have begged you on my knees."

You smile at the mental image that provides. The Hand and Heir on his knees for you. "I would have liked that."

He gives you the fondest look. "I have no doubt."

You fiddle with his hand. His skin is soft, prominent veins running up the back and to the knuckles. You fit your hand to his like a question, examining the difference in size and shape. The ring on his middle finger, still damp from where it's been. In you. In his mouth.

"Why did you do that?" You don't mean to ask the question aloud, but it comes out anyway.

"Do what?"

You glance at Baelor and determine that he's only asking because he wants to hear you say it, and not because he's really confused as to what you mean. He looks coy, which is not something you've ever seen on him before— but you think that it suits him.

"Taste it." The words feel sharp in your mouth. "You didn't have to. I wouldn't have expected you to."

He breathes in deeply, and exhales on a long, low hum. Then, his eyes find yours again. "There are few pleasures in this world that compare to the taste of a woman. I wanted to."

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. "And?"

"And you taste divine." A deft finger twists in the hair just at the very top of your head, twirling it around and around in hypnotic circles. "I would taste you again, if you would allow me."

It's your turn to hum. You hold his one hand in both of yours, tracing the details of them with your fingertips. Your thumbs map out the dip of his palm, the raised, sword-strengthened calluses beneath his fingers. The meat of his hand, where it connects to his wrist.

Without pausing to feel embarrassment or shame, you bring his hand to your mouth. You brush your lips over his fingers just barely, before you take them in and suck on them. You hear a shudder in Baelor's breath, but you don't stop. It is an intimate thing, to have his fingers stroke your tongue, to taste yourself on him, to know that his own tongue had been in the exact same place moments ago. You whimper and draw them in deep, your lips fitting around the silver ring against his knuckle, your eyes falling shut. He watches you, allowing you to take his swordsman's hand and fit his fingers between your teeth, trusting you not to bite down.

You sigh as you release them, dragging your tongue along the ridges and dips of his fingers on their way out. "I wanted to do that," you admit to him quietly. "For a while."

"You like my hands, it seems," he muses, a note of approval in his voice.

"Very much." You blink at him, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I'll let you have me however you want, my Prince. I only ask that first… you kiss me."

"Is that so? Only a kiss?" You nod, and Baelor smirks. He drags the tip of his pinkie finger gently down the slope of your nose. "You drive a hard bargain. If I kiss you now, I fear I may never stop."

"Don't stop."

Baelor lets out a short breath, and then scoops you up into a sitting position. You grunt in surprise, grabbing for his shoulders at the sudden movement, but you settle with his arm tight around your waist. Your heart skips a beat when he cradles your head in his palm, his fingers tangled in your hair.

"I don't think you understand just how wonderful you are," Baelor whispers, his mouth so close to your that the warmth of his lips practically touches yours. He hovers there, a breath away, and it's torturous to hold back. "You'll be the death of me."

With a shaking hand, you rest your palm against his cheek. You feel the scruff of his beard, the way that his jaw tenses the tiniest bit. "And if I don't kiss you, I'll die."

That seems to finally crack his composure. Baelor brushes your hair away from your face, strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, and closes the gap.

His kiss sends shocks of warmth through you, and you melt into him with a quiet sob of relief. Relief from the tension and swells of pain and fear. Relief at finally being able to hold him, to kiss him, open mouth to open mouth. You clutch at his shoulder, his neck, and swing your thigh over his to sit halfway on his lap.

He moves with you, his strong arms keeping you steady as you sink against him, groaning into you. Each point of contact feels bright, like if you opened your eyes to look you would find yourself glowing where he touches you. But his mouth moves against yours like silk, his tongue against yours, and he tastes like peace. It feels like the end of the storm, the answer to all your problems— even if it is only just the beginning.

Baelor's hand slides down to your lower back, holding you fast, splayed wide across your spine. His fingertips press into the flesh there, pulling you closer, until you're flush against him.

Your cunt grinds down onto the meat of his thigh, and you moan brokenly into his mouth. The sound of his name again, sweet on your tongue. He captures your lips with his, his other hand coming down to grip your hip. He rocks you against his thigh purposefully, swallowing the desperate sound that leaves you when your clit presses into the heat of him, through frustrating barriers of fabric.

You make a small, disgruntled noise, and your hand falls to the belt around his doublet. Nails scratching at the leather, you fumble with the buckle until it comes free. You feel beneath the cover of his doublet to find his soft linen shirt, warm from the heat of his body. Strong muscles tense beneath the lightness of your touch.

You huff a perturbed sigh against his mouth. "You are too clothed."

"You are too impatient," Baelor returns, but there is a huskiness to his voice that makes his words seem inconsequential. He shrugs out of his doublet to let your hands wander over his shoulders, down to squeeze the width of his arms. His beard tickles along your jaw as he presses kisses to your skin, trailing up to your ear. "Lie back, darling."

You recline on a pile of tangled sheets, chemise rucked up around your hips. Heat kisses your cheeks and pulses low in your core, your thighs instinctively wanting to close in on themselves, but they are stopped in their endeavor by Baelor's hips.

The mattress dips beside your shoulder where he leans his weight, hovering over you, a veil of security against the rest of the world. He drags his open mouth across your skin like this is not only for your benefit, but for his. You feel the flash of wet and warmth from his tongue, and your back arches up against him. He moves so slowly, savoring, his breath tumbling across your heated flesh like clouds of smoke.

It feels good. It feels so heavenly that you don't quite know how to accept it— you feel almost as though you should move away, but you would only be condemning yourself to more torment. You are bound to the bed by curiosity, an insatiable need to see what he does next. To feel his mouth touch more of you, places that you never thought to feel a pair of lips, teeth, or a tongue.

Baelor skims lightly over your breasts through the fabric of your chemise, while his hands find the curve of your waist. As he lowers, he ever-so-slowly tugs the fabric up, up, up, until you are bare from the waist-down and left open for his wandering mouth.

Your hands cling to him, one clawing against his back, the other gliding over the back of his head, cradling him to you. You gasp to feel the heat of his tongue on the skin just beneath your ribs. "Baelor…"

He hums in acknowledgement of his name, dragging his lips down over the curve of your stomach and lingering there. Baelor is thorough in a way that shouldn't shock you as much as it does— he lavishes you with his tongue and his lips, the quickest grazes of his teeth making you lurch against him with small sighs and moans. You are entirely alive with feeling, winding you up, until your whole body tenses and releases with it.

Then, he's moving. He passes over your pelvis and your aching, swollen cunt, and goes lower, settling between your knees. You make a little sound, a whimper of protest when you can't hold his head in your hands anymore.

He shushes you with his mouth against the inside of your knee, and then the wet swath of his tongue licks upwards in a way that takes you entirely by surprise. Bold, quick, his face so close and coming towards the most intimate part of you that you startle. "Gods—"

"Let me." It's a quiet plea, hushed against the skin of your inner thigh, one big hand cradling it to his cheek. There's the prickle of his beard, then the soft soothing of his tongue after. "My sweet girl. Let me taste you here."

"Yes," you sigh, even as he's already licking over the trail that your arousal has left, smeared across your overheated flesh.

The aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly. The maester had said as much, and it becomes more and more apparent that, as Baelor lingers there, breathing in your scent and tasting you on his tongue, he is becoming intoxicated by the poison leeching from you. It's in the way his breath falls unevenly from his mouth, the way his gaze has gone a bit glassy with want, his pupils so wide that his beautiful, incongruous eyes are nearly black.

Baelor takes to you with a wide, flat stroke of his tongue that practically burns you alive. Your back leaves the mattress, your hands snatching at his head. Your cry breaks in your throat with its intensity and pitch, already taken to pieces by the single touch of his mouth to your cunt.

He groans into you— fully moans, as though this is entirely for his benefit and it is not something that he's doing in service to you. It is not a sound that you would have ever expected to hear from him, half-animalistic and far from the restrained, princely figure you've come to know him as. Large hands grasp at your hips and bring you further into his mouth, firm and consuming.

His name leaves you on a squeal. You're being too loud and you know it— through the open window, you can hear birds soar past, voices down in the courtyards. Any and everyone will hear you, and what the Prince of Dragonstone is doing to you, if you can't help it. You barely have the mental fortitude to let one shaking hand leave his head and clap over your mouth to stifle your cries.

He pulls back, releasing your clit from between his lips with a wet sound that makes your face burn. His eyes find yours, and you feel pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. "Do not silence yourself. Let me hear you."

You hesitate for only a second, but he doesn't move. Baelor's eyes remain fixed on your face as you reach forward, then stroke a hand over the crown of his head, a tentative and seeking touch. Then he returns to suck at your clit again, and you have to bite your tongue on a whimper.

He remains there for a long time. Long enough that you begin to think you may go delirious from the pleasure, and not from the poison throbbing and coursing through your veins, effecting him as he tastes you. He drags you to the precipice, to a place where reason and restraint don't exist anymore. There, you threaten to burn alive.

You cum into his mouth with a hoarse cry, your head tipped back on the pillows. It splinters through you like it may both destroy you and rebuild you anew at the same time— there's a rush, a flood between your legs that you don't expect, any more than you expect Baelor to stay there and take it, in all its viciousness.

You can't quite think. You feel him lingering there, his lips and tongue still on you, but it's as though you've been entirely unmade. He doesn't move, just remains solid and capable with his attention on your spent cunt, his tongue still lapping at the wetness that drips from you until you're certain— almost entirely certain— that this is not for the sake of the poison. This is not the potion at work. This is sex for the sake of sex.

"Baelor," you murmur, your voice a bit too high and airy in your throat. Your fingers dig at his scalp for something to make sense of. "D'you think— think it worked—?"

"Mm. You need another." Baelor answers you before you finish asking the question, his eyes narrowed as he rears back. His face is painted in your wetness, glistening around his mouth as he breathes heavily. "Let's not take any chances, shall we?"

"No, I wouldn't want to— to take chances— oh."

Baelor is climbing the line of your body, traversing over you like a panther on the hunt. His parted lips trail a wet line over your stomach, and he nudges your bunched up chemise back, further up your ribs. With trembling hands, you grab the useless fabric and pull it, tugging it frustratedly over your head so that you can throw it across the room.

"My beautiful girl," Baelor whispers into your skin, almost as though talking to himself more than you. His palm smoothes over the curve of your ribs and comes up to cup your breast, a reverent and tender touch, as though simply feeling the weight of it in his hand. "So stunning. Oh, I dreamt of this."

"You dreamt…?" You stutter out a gasp when his mouth closes hotly over your nipple, and your hands fly up to grasp the back of his head.

"I dreamt," Baelor repeats, moving his attention to your other breast with the same amount of care. "I wanted. I wished."

You pull him by the nape of his neck and he moves with your urging, lifting himself over you so that you can kiss him. The dampness of your arousal, still lingering in his facial hair, smears against your cheek as you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, oddly sweet on his tongue.

"Take your clothes off," you grumble against his lips, the slightest note of impatience lacing your tone as your fingers dig against his shoulders.

His linen shirt meets your chemise somewhere on the floor. Your hands find his chest, sliding down over hard muscle padded with soft flesh. He has a body befitting a man of his station— a soldier, hard and lean, bearing the scars of battle but unashamed of them. You trace a scar stretching across his ribs, trailing down towards his navel. Unhurried fingers dance over the trail of hair stretching downwards, guiding you towards the waist of his breeches.

"You're beautiful." It comes out more forceful than you mean for it to— but gods, do you mean it. You want to map out his body with your hands and your lips and your teeth, you want to learn every inch of him by rote, and still never stop once you know all. You try to convey it to him with your eyes, because you can't find any other words to express it. "You're so beautiful, Baelor, you must know."

He smiles, and it's that smile. The one that has haunted you since you saw it last, the one that you want to see over and over again. It causes a swelling feeling in your chest that… probably isn't healthy, but none of this is. It would be death to deny it now.

"You flatter me," Baelor says, his thumb stroking idly against your thigh, where his hand rests. His eyes are soft, flicking over you with so much adoration you struggle not to squirm beneath it.

"I tell the truth," you murmur, slipping two fingers just beneath the waist of his breeches to trace just below the fabric. His breath hitches, and you smirk. "I could always lie, but I imagine you'd see right through it, now."

"It would be very unladylike of you," he remarks, his smile turning sardonic.

"Hm. Can't have that." Even as you say it, your hands are untying his breeches, your fingers tugging until you're able to slip them down his hips. "We both know just how ladylike I am."

One boot comes off, then two, and his breeches shed to leave him in his smallclothes. There is no finesse to his movements— the seduction is over, leaving only sharp intent and the promise of what's to come. Desire wound tight like a spring, loaded to snap at a single touch.

That touch comes when you slip your fingers along the band of his smallclothes, a single, featherlight graze against the laces. Baelor's entire body goes rigid over you, as if you've held a blade to his throat. You guide them over his hips and down his thighs, until he snaps to and shirks them the rest of the way. He whispers your name, something between awe and guttural need forming the word in his throat.

"Baelor," you hum in response when your fingers find him and wrap around his cock. You freeze for just a moment— he's larger than you expected, and the prospect sends a little shiver through you. The Hammer, you think to yourself. Of course. He's hot to the touch, burning and throbbing against your palm, so hard it seems like it should be unbearable for him. But he bears it, for you. "Do you know how many women in the realm dream of this?"

He makes a small noise of warning, twitching in your grip.

Your grin turns wolfish as you pass your thumb over the head, flushed and leaking. "Do you know how many would kill for this? Would die to lie beneath you like this?"

"Heavens above." He shudders out a sigh as you stroke him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "Don't— you mustn't say such things to me, my love, I— I have to be so careful with you. You have no idea."

So this is what it is, to have him lose his composure. No longer the Prince of Dragonstone, Hand to the King, heir to the Iron Throne— in your hands, he is simply a man. A man who wants, whose breath spills warm across your lips. Whose hips search for yours when you wrap your legs around his waist.

"Would you let me have you, my Prince?" you ask him, and your voice is light, inquisitive. It can't be anything else, because you are just as desperate as he is. You don't have it in you to be teasing, you are simply open with your need for him, allowing your innermost thoughts to surge to the forefront. Your forehead pressed to his, you look up through your lashes to find his eyes closed, squeezed shut in some vain attempt to hold on. "My love?"

His eyes snap open to meet yours, pressed so close that your noses touch. Baelor groans quietly when you guide him between your legs without waiting for an answer— it was a rhetorical question, after all.

But all the same, he replies, "Anything you desire."

Baelor drops his hips, enough to follow the guidance of your hand. He fills you in one fluid stoke, and together you take a long, deep breath.

"You are…"

"Perfect." He finishes your sentence for you, hushed and airy though it is. It feels as though you could be interrupted at any moment with the way he holds you, like a secret, like something that should never been spoken or heard about. Like you are only for him to know this way.

He presses his hips flush to yours, making you keen from the fullness, the exquisite stretch. The potion, for what it's worth, does make everything slicker, easier— you are so swollen and relaxed from his mouth, your body so attuned to his that there is no pain. Only the pleasure of his touch remains.

He moves, and it lights you up from within like wildfire. Your back arches towards him, your chest pressing up against his, and a sound unlike anything you've ever made tears from your throat. Arms blindly snatching for him, you wrap yourself around him as though he may try to move away.

He nuzzles his nose against yours, almost too tender of a gesture for the position you find yourself in. "That's it, darling. Take all of me."

Your mind clouds with pleasure as he rocks his hips into yours. You feel like you're drowning in the skin on skin, stripped to the skin and pressed flush to him. Your hand smoothes down his back, feeling rigid muscle and raised scars there, too.

He withdraws and presses forward, setting a slow, deliberate pace that drives you practically mad. He's so gentle and tender even when everything about him, about this situation, tells you that he wants to let go of his restraint. Widening your thighs on instinct, your hand cradles the back of his head, bringing his lips closer to yours.

"Don't hold back," you tell him, and you feel his breath pause where it fans against your cheek. Even though to try to be commanding, your voice cracks. "Baelor— stop holding back—"

Baelor presses a single, chaste kiss to your lips, and you are too caught up in the moment to realize that it's a warning, a subtle apology before he's shifting. He lifts your hips, planting his knees on the mattress before he pulls you into his lap, your back bent over the expanse of his strong thighs.

You slide down the mattress with an undignified squeak, hands scratching along the sheets for stability where there is none. And then you settle into your new position, gazing up at him with a stunned expression.

He's unbelievably gorgeous. His chest leaps with his breath, tanned and freckled skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He pants through parted lips, his eyes sharp and focused as they always are, cheeks flushed. He's a vision, and he's all yours.

Baelor splays his hand flat against your chest, running his palm over the skin where, beneath, your heart pounds a drumbeat loud as thunder in your ears. Then he drags his touch down, between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. His hand settles warm and solid over your navel, thumb stroking you tenderly enough to make you let out a soft sigh.

But then he's sliding his cock into you again, a wicked thrust that punches all the air from your lungs, and his hand presses down. Your brows draw together, your mouth falling open on a silent moan as he hits something so devastating inside of you that it makes your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.

"Feel that?" Baelor murmurs, his voice roughened with desperation as he does it again, and again. Pull back, push forward, press down. "Feel how deep I am inside you?"

It comes out so… possessive. Spurred on by the fact that he's the only one to do this to you, the only person to see you like this. Like he's staking a claim to you with each roll of his hips. His fingers rub back and forth over the soft flesh of your stomach, and you do feel it— the tip of his cock as he drives it into you, reaching so deep within you that it makes a faint bulge in your lower stomach.

You sob out an incoherent response, lights dancing behind your eyelids. Your hands, searching for something to hold onto as his thrusts gain momentum, find the pillow above your head. You squeeze it, pull blindly as though it will bring you some respite, and the downy soft padding of it covers your face, smothering the obscene moans that spill from your mouth.

Baelor's hand all but slams down on top of the pillow with a dull thump. You feel the impact through the feather stuffing, a slight bump against the tip of your nose before he's snatching it away from you and flinging the accursed thing across the room. It hits one of the open window shutters and falls to the floor.

"Do not. Hide." It's a snarl released from his throat, his hand coming to cup your chin and pull you to center. "Show me your eyes."

You blink your eyes open at him and bite your lip, trying to keep your whimpering at bay. You watch his core muscles flex with the movement of his hips, his chest dappled with golden sunlight, his jaw tightening with the effort to remain consistent, even when you told him to let go.

"There she is," Baelor whispers, a flicker of awe crossing his features. "My beautiful girl."

His thumb strokes across your lower lip, and without even thinking, you close your lips around it. The pad of his thumb, tasting of salt and the sweet musk of your own cunt, strokes against your tongue. A quiet groan breaks from him, his thrusts turning erratic and unmeasured when you suck hard.

Baelor drops his chin toward his chest, his face drawn in silent agony. "Fuck."

Your cunt clamps down hard around him at the sound of the swear falling from his lips. You don't know why the single word is enough to drive you crazy— probably because you've never heard Baelor curse before, and it's such a juxtaposition to the rest of him. The unshakeable prince brought to shambles by your lips around his thumb, your legs around his core.

Your orgasm mounts suddenly, and your teeth bear down hard on his thumb. It's enough to throw him off-kilter. He hisses through his teeth and pulls you with his free hand, seating himself deep inside you, his hips pressed flush to yours. He slides his hand from your waist downward, through the soft curls of hair on your mound. He finds your clit, brushing a circle around it with the tip of one, impossibly gentle fingertip.

You cum so quickly that the force of it turns blinding and sharp. Your cunt pulses on his cock with an urgency that wracks your entire body. But it is not enough for him that you lay there milking him— no, he has to escalate it.

Just as soon as it hits, Baelor's hand is gripping your thigh, pushing your leg up until your knee hooks over his shoulder, and he bends you. Your thigh presses tight to your chest as he moves over you, his cock hitting immeasurably deeper now. You claw desperately at his back, fingernails scratching, raking hard lines that will be too easy for his servants to notice, come morning.

He doesn't let up, even for a second. Still driving his hips, fucking you through the pulsing of your cunt, his body holding you down against the bed. His thumb slides from your mouth with a wet pop, spit smearing across your cheek as he cradles your face. Baelor replaces his thumb with his tongue, kissing you deeply, reverently, like he can feed all his devotion into you with it.

"Good girl," he whispers into your mouth, dragging his hips back slowly and then filling you back up even slower. You squirm, drowning between your legs from the oversensitivity and the entirely new angle he hits at. The sound that he makes is unbelievably erotic, something between a sigh and a rasping moan that cracks in his throat. "So good for me, my darling."

You cry his name, latching onto him with a trembling hand. "Fuck— Baelor. You need to cum. You should—"

"Don't." He shakes his head, fixing you with a heated look. He swallows, exhaling a stuttering breath. "Not— not yet, I don't—"

But you're nodding against him in retaliation, tightening your core muscles around his cock, squeezing him so hard that he makes a noise like you've punched him.

"Fuck," Baelor grits, hanging his head. "Oh, fucking Seven, you just— just can't stand to lose— can you—?"

Perspiration beads on his brow, and you have the sudden urge to lick it. So, you do. You pull him down by the neck, and he goes, following the urging of your hand like it's a command he's beholden to. You run your tongue across his temple, up and over his drawn brow, and he shudders.

In spite of everything— the overstimulation, the frightening possibility that you might cum again— you manage to break a small, breathless smile. Your mouth finds the shell of his ear, and your voice drops unexpectedly low. "Yield."

He plants his hips against yours, pressing your thigh so far against your chest that your knee almost touches your ear. He cums with an exquisite moan against your cheek, your tongue still pressed to his face to taste more of him, as though you can consume the very beauty from his skin.

You take his hand— the one against your thigh, holding it up around his waist— and guide it down between your flush bodies. Even while you feel him pulse inside you, he follows your guidance without question. He rubs a light caress against your clit, just enough to send sparks shooting up your spine.

You cum again for him, and it's gentler this time— like sunlight breaking through a storm. You give him a soft, relieved moan, while you pulse on his cock and your tense muscles release beneath him.

You both lay there in the feeling, letting the pulsations die down as you settle. And then, he stirs just a bit.

"Better?" Baelor murmurs, nudging his nose against yours.

"Much."

You feel him smile as he kisses you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You let him linger there, smiling into your mouth, for a few more seconds— and then you kick your heel against his shoulder, where your leg is still slung up and pinned against you.

He laughs at the disgruntled noise you make, lowering your leg and smoothing his palm up the length of it as he pulls it to rest against his hip. "My strong girl. You're quite the force when you want something, hm?"

"Don't you forget it," you grumble, but there's no real heat to it.

"I'm not likely to anytime soon."

You sigh when he withdraws from you, but only so that he can roll you both, gathering you into his arms. You lay with your head on his sweat-slick chest, his arm encircling your shoulders to hold you close. Relaxing into him, your body spent, you place a hand over his chest to feel his heart thundering beneath your palm.

Both naked, tangled up in each other, you remain like that for a while. Your fingers drawing idle shapes against his chest, gliding through the hair there as it rises and falls with his breaths as they even out.

He's yours. The thought flits through your mind, light as a feather. He's going to marry you. You'll be his wife. Many things about it make your chest tighten. That you'll be the Crown Princess in the process. That eventually, you will be expected to be Queen.

As quickly as your fears bubble up, one thing quells the flood. He's Baelor. He'll take care of you. He always seems to. You trust him to. You… you love him for it.

"You're staring."

You blink, and tilt your head to look up at him. You had been staring, directly at the mess you made between his legs, while your mind whirled in a dozen different directions. You should probably feel embarrassed at being caught, but there's mirth in Baelor's eyes. His hand pets affectionately against the back of your head.

"We're betrothed," you say, in lieu of an explanation.

"So we are."

"The King should probably know."

Baelor makes a short noise. It rumbles in his chest, against your cheek. "The King can wait until the 'morrow. I'm not terribly enticed by the idea of leaving you tonight." He turns his head slightly towards the open window. "After all, I'd imagine most of the Keep knows about it, by now."

You giggle, turning your face towards his chest. You nuzzle into the hair over his heart and breathe in, smelling the comforting scent of his skin. Remarkably, it is less strong than it has been all evening, no longer heightened to the point of overwhelm. You can't hear every damned thing in the Keep anymore— nor can you taste the saltwater on the air from the bay.

"Baelor."

"Mm?"

"I think it worked." You press a kiss to his sternum. "We did it."

"Good." A pause. Baelor heaves a deep sigh. "Do not. Ever. Drink another fucking sex potion. For the love of the suffering Seven."

You tut, a teasing smile quirking at your lips. "So I shouldn't use the second one I have in my drawers, then?"

Baelor's head snaps towards you. When you see the look of terror on his face, you dissolve into a fit of laughter, pulling yourself closer against his side.

He huffs a quiet chuckle, but you can't mistake the sound of relief underlying it. He lays a warm palm against your bare shoulder. "Troublemaker."

"Yes, I am." You bite your lip, trailing your hand down his stomach, your fingers grazing lightly enough that you watch his abdominal muscles tense beneath the touch. "But I want you like this all the time."

"Naked?"

"Unmoored."

You turn your head to find him regarding you with the same calmness you've come to expect from him, but with a fire burning within his gaze. He smirks slightly. "That shouldn't be too difficult for you to accomplish, I fear."

With a hum, you slip your leg over his hips and lift yourself to straddle him. His hands find your waist, steadying you. You raise yourself up, one hand braced on his chest, the other falling to one of his hands. Beneath you, you feel his cock begin to harden again as you place his hand on your breast.

"Then let me begin, my Prince."

The wedding is scheduled for three weeks later, at Baelor's behest. Long enough for the lords of the seven houses to arrive in due course, but not long enough for there to be question if you indeed are with his child.

You spoke about it at length, actually. He was very insistent, seeing as how he was trying to actively put one in you at the time.

On the day of your wedding, you sit in your vanity chair and fiddle with the cuffs of your dress. It is white and gold, of a fabric quality you've never been able to luxuriate in before. It feels stifling. You fear walking in it, breathing in it, doing anything that may damage it at all. You sit with your spine stiff and straight, allowing Mircalla to fix pins into your hair. Several other serving girls flit about the room, attending to various other chores.

When you feel you've just about had enough of the prodding of pins, a knock sounds at the chamber door. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you shift in your seat, hoping that it may be your husband-to-be, come to steal you away for a moment before the ceremony. It would not be unlike him— Baelor is a busy man, but attentive as often when he can be. Even if it is a mere kiss in an alcove, or a five minute interlude in the courtyard, there is always a time and a place that he can find to be with you, to show you his affections.

But the chamber door opens, and your guard steps a foot into the room. "Prince Daeron to see you, my lady."

Daeron? Your brow draws in confusion, but you rise from your chair, regardless. "Enter."

Daeron stumbles into the room with all the grace of a newborn deer. The maids all pause in tandem, and a hush falls over the room as he blinks up at each of them awkwardly, his blue eyes a bit less bleary than normal, his honey-gold hair tied back with a black ribbon for the festivities. "Apologies for my… intrusion?"

"No harm done, my lord." You clasp your hands anxiously behind your back, all the same. "What may I do for you?"

"I had wanted a word with you, my lady. Alone. For only a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"

You think that you would mind, very much. But the longer you regard Daeron, trying to cling to your vitriol, the less you can find any. You are about to be married to the Crown Prince, a gorgeous and honorable man who you are falling desperately in love with, to no one's surprise.

You cannot bring yourself to refuse Daeron— and so, you dismiss your ladies with a courteous nod.

As soon as the door shuts, Daeron is crossing the room and slumping into an armchair by the window. You do not move, but follow him with your eyes as he slouches, heaving an enormous sigh.

"Are you drunk?" you ask him pointedly.

"Always." He flashes you a sardonic smile. You give him an incredulous look. "Necessity compels. But I am here, and not at a tavern, at least."

"Better wine, I'd imagine."

"Mm, yes. Arbor red. An excellent choice, indeed." He pauses, his eyes flicking over you apprehensively. "I came to… apologize, my lady. I fear I have behaved rather badly towards you, and I felt I owed you an explanation."

You only blink at him. "Yes, you do."

"Right." He licks his lips, seeming to collect his thoughts. "Before you came to King's Landing… I dreamed of you."

"How romantic."

"No, not— not so much." Daeron takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You see, my dreams… they have a tendency to come true. It isn't always a good thing." He pauses for a long moment, his eyes focused on the middle-distance, appearing to see something that you can't. "When I dreamt of you, it was… I saw you dying, my lady. I saw you on your death bed. And you cursed me for it."

You say nothing, but watch him as his shaking hands smooth against his pants.

"I didn't know what it meant. But I figured, when I saw you, that if I was going to be the reason for your death— in screaming agony— then it would needs be best for both of us if I held no relation to you. If I could refuse you and not speak a word, it would be… you wouldn't have died. And I wouldn't have been the cause."

"But, I have not died, my lord."

"No." Daeron lets out a short laugh, void of humor. "But, you had an affliction some weeks back, did you not? I heard it was rather a close call." He fixes his eyes on you, and he looks so deeply apologetic. Like a kicked dog, he peers up at you through his lashes. "If I was in any way responsible for— for any pain caused, I am truly sorry, my lady. My intentions were noble, I assure you. My execution, however…"

"Leaves something to be desired, yes." You close your eyes, breathe in slowly. Daeron reeks of alcohol, but you don't allow it to deter you from stepping closer to his chair. "In your dream, what was it that I said? How did I curse you?"

Daeron swallows, his eyes flicking around the room briefly. "You said… 'I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me. I didn't take the fucking thing for him.'" Your face must betray your thoughts, because Daeron regards you closely before nodding solemnly, folding his hands in his lap. "Right. So, it was that."

Your heart pounds so hard that you swear it's trying to leap up into your throat. "Daeron. Whatever you think you saw—"

"It's not for me to pry." His eyes continuously move from your face to various areas of the room, like he doesn't want to look at you head-on. "What I know is that you are well now, and marrying my uncle. And I am happy for you, my lady. I truly am. It has been many years since I saw him smile the way he does, when you aren't looking." Daeron finally chances to look you directly in the eye, and he looks gravely serious. "Do not take this the wrong way, but I think that we would have been terrible for each other. Wouldn't you agree?"

For the first time since Daeron stepped into your chambers, a smile crosses your face. "You know, I think you're absolutely right. We would have killed each other."

Daeron lets out a sad chuckle. "Quite so."

He looks around, at a loss for a few seconds, before he heaves himself up and stands over you. He's quite a bit taller than you first thought— maybe it's because he isn't slouching as much, now.

"Forgive me, my lady. I've taken enough of your time. I wish you a long and happy marriage." He winks. "Only, one not to me."

That finally earns him a giggle from you, and Daeron smiles, before lifting your hand and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You watch him cross the room, narrowly avoiding bumping into your vanity chair as he moves.

At the door, Daeron pauses and turns back to you with a reserved smirk. "Just so you know. My cock does work. If the need should ever arise again."

He ducks out of the room before the pillow you throw can hit him.

jumpcut mid porn scene to mircalla and florin sharing a blunt outside the laundry rooms like "so do u think they're fuckin or"

[dilfrobinavitch]

older boyfriend robby moodboard ⋆.𐙚 ̊

need this old man more than i need air atp

[sansafilms]

can’t stop thinking about being cassie mckay’s controversial young wife :P

warnings: MDNI, age gap relationship, slight smut at the end, perv!cassie lowkey, blurb

thinking about older wife!cassie, who is such a hypocrite.

she judges chad for dating chloe to her co-workers, always saying she was too young and immature, and he was weird for going to someone who’s brain isn’t fully developed.

dana giving her a side eye, peeking at the wedding ring on cassie’s finger, knowing damn well she’s now freshly married to you, who just so happens to be around chloe’s age.

she doesn’t care though, because you’re different. in her eyes, you’re everything chloe is not.

older wife!cassie, who shamelessly loves the differences between your physical appearances.

her face, slightly wrinkled from age. her hands, rough and calloused. compared to your face, skin still smooth from age, hands not as tough as hers.

she likes watching people try and figure out what you two are. wants to see the mental gymnastics it takes in their minds as they realize the wedding rings dawning on your hand and hers.

older wife!cassie, who loves a roleplay moment.

obviously she loves medical play, given shes a doctor. but she’s into so many other authoritarian roles. teacher x student. moms best friend. boss x intern. each one she makes sure to point out your age gap

older wife!cassie, who fucks you so hard, panting in your ear as she grunts out, “look at you. such a young thing letting yourself be fucked by me. wonder what people will think knowing im old enough to be your mom..” while her strap brutally hits your cervix over and over again.

(can yall tell im h*rny??)

[basils-gardening-shears]

They’re so siblings

[crashingcryptid]

Kyle spends an ungodly amount of time on his skin care. He takes great pride in the way he looks, the softeness of his skin, the way he smells, the way his curls lay. He's the pretty boy, after all. He has to be pretty.

Simon watches from his seat on the toilet seat. "What's the next step?" He rumbles as Kyle opens up a new container of moisturizer.

"This is for dark spots and blemishes. It's the last lotion for the night." Kyle explains as he carefully dabs his face. Simon scoffs at the word blemishes. There was no such thing on his beautiful lovers face. He was perfect. Kyle playfully wrinkles his nose at Simon, smearing some leftover moisturizer onto his cheek. "I can hear your thoughts."

"Can you?" Simon teases, leaning into Kyle's thumb when he massages the product in.

"You're thinking that I'm the most handsome man you've ever seen." Kyle teases, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. Simon turns his head to softly kiss Kyle's palm.

"You are." He murmurs sincerely as he looks up at his lover, his face still slightly streaked with product. "Hurry up, pretty boy. I want to take you to bed."

[drjabbotswife]

i work behind a bar in a restaurant so i thought it was about time i wrote something like this

"do you guys sell cocktails in here?"

you're watching from the taps, swirling the glass around so that you get a nice amount of head on the larger. the poor girl is batting her eyes at deran, like that'll help her case.

you almost snort.

and deran just about manages to shake his head no before you step in. handing the customer their beer, taking over for him. it's not that kind of bar, he tries to say every time. and every time you step in.

"what do you need, honey?" you ask her, leaning against the counter top. it's too tall for you to do it comfortably, but you make it work.

"two pornstar martinis?" the girl asks, her attention on you. she bats her eyelashes, just like she did at deran, and you nod.

you grab your shaker, fill it with ice. you fill it with the liquid you need, put the top on and begin shaking it.

deran's bar wasn't equipped for serving cocktails before you started working there. you put the shakers and the mixtures on the order sheet, you put the cocktail list up for when you were on shift, ready to make them.

there's a guy sat at the bar, beside the brooding, curly haired man you call your boyfriend. he's not local, you can tell by looking at him. here to surf and party, and somehow he ends up in deran's bar.

he looks you up and down, eyes lighting up. you wouldn't have gotten close if you didn't have to, if you didn't need to grab the two martini glasses.

"i like the way you shake that thing," he calls over the chatter as you keep shaking the cocktail in the rhythm.

"no you don't," you reply, popping the top and pouring the cocktail into the glasses.

his eyebrows go up, like this is a challenge. "no?" he asks and you shake your head, pouring the shot of prosecco and adding the raspberry dusting to the top. "and why's that?"

you glance to his left, to the man staring at him with fire in his eyes. a dangerous fire you fucking love. you pass the drink to the girl, take her payment and return to the man, leaning close with your hands clasped together.

"because my boyfriend is sitting beside you," you whisper and andrew moves closer to the both of you. "and he's fucking crazy."

andrew stands up. you want to jump across the counter and snog him like crazy. but he just leans close to the guy, getting in his face. and that's enough of a warning.

"thank you, andy!" you say and go back to serving the bar, your protector behind you, watching over you.

[bluetimeombre]

Ladybug !

synopsis hi fell in love with your portrayal of dr. robby is it okay for me to request for dr. robby’s attending! wife and the early signs of pregnancy before she decided to take a test? (like falling asleep while doing charts or over a casual conversation hehe) request!

warningsTW vomit, usual hospital-ness. language, smutish, pregnancy and baby talk stuff

authornote this was a request that I loved writing so much but nobody needs to know the work that went into publishing it, that stays between me and @expreissionism who requested, thanks so much again!

Robby left exam room four and- like always- he found you first. 

He smiled. The kind that took over his whole face, that crinkled his eyes and caused his cheeks to hurt. The sort people didn't see often in the deep hells of the Pitt unless he was looking at you. Or talking about you. Or thinking about you. Basically, if he smiled like that it was you.

But his smile faded quick when he took note of you. 

“Hey?”

You jerked up, looking at him. 

Robby leant over the counter, sliding on his glasses and looked closer. 

He was too close to you to be studying you like a patient, but just close enough for his wife. 

“You eat anything today?” he asked. 

You squinted at him. “We literally got breakfast this morning.”

“Okay, okay.”

There were darkening circles under your eyes and your lips were chapped which was his first sign something was wrong: you treated moisturising your lips like some do religion. Other than that your body was slumped over a computer. You were far more active than this. 

“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.

You smirked. “Well no, not really, someone kept me up.”

Robby smirked right back, leaning back just enough to give you space. “Are you complaining?”

“No.”

Flashbacks of last night came to mind in searing heat. The sweat of your bodies, the grip he held on your hand as he fucked you into the mattress like he did most nights. 

They said your libido goes down the older you get but Robby was going through another one. His box of blue pills sat abandoned in his bedside draw- thank god. 

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“But that saying,” you continued, swivelling in your chair to face him. Still, he didn't move. He could smell the shampoo you'd bathed yourself in this morning and his mouth salivated like a dog with his favourite treat. “Four rounds?”

Robby took a quick sweep of the area, making sure nobody was missing him and his wife as they flirted shamelessly. “You asked for it.”

You frowned. “Did I?”

“Hey!” called Dana. “Mr and Mrs Adams, we could use your help here!”

You playfully rolled your eyes and Robby backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. He watched Dana turn to at least give them a second to finish up their flirting before digging into his pocket. 

“Here- for your lips.”

A small, practically un-used tube of chap-stick fell from the palm of his hand to yours. He carried it for you, always. If you'd asked you'd know he carried an extra pack of nuts and hand cream too. 

He'd been doing so secretly since your first dates years ago. 

Of course the supplies were different but the sentiment the same.

You blushed, a bright smile coming to your face. “You are so adorable.”

Robby shook off the word like it was splash of cold water. “Yeah, don't let onto anyone, okay? Got a cold exterior to keep up.”

“Oh- of course.”

He could have stood there and watched you all day but he already felt Dana's gaze, un-wavering. He squeezed your shoulders and pressed a kiss on your forehead before slipping away with a quiet promise to himself that he'd get his hands on you later.

“You don't look so well, you know,” said Dana once the coast was clear of Robby. 

“Don't you start,” you said. “I've had enough of this the last couple days from Robby.”

“Oh yeah, you got something?” Dana's hand was gentle on your back. If you weren't careful she'd push you onto a bed, have you in a gown with a chart written up herself. She'd mother you; smother you in her care even if she wasn't a doctor. Even if you were the attending around the place. 

You shook your head and flashed her a un-convincing smile. 

You were sure it was a bug, or burn out.

You'd caught burn out like some do colds or flus. As the second attending it was your job- with Robby's- to make sure everyone was taught, that patients were satisfied (you found you were doing that part for your husband as well) and you were saving as many lives as you could. 

The careful art of delegation and avoidance was lost on you. You threw yourself into traumas like you were still a med student with something to prove.

“Okay, if you say so,” said Dana with a purse of her lips. 

“I do say so.”

“If you need anything.”

“Am I married to you or Robinavitch?” you teased, tugging on gloves and readying yourself for a room of hustle. 

Dana chuckled, backing away slowly to her station. “You should be so lucky, Robinavitch.”

Using the weight of your back you pushed into trauma two. 

“Okay, kids- what have we got?”

“Fetal heart rate one-two-eight.”

Whitaker was at your side in an instant, handing you the chart. “Woman in her late twenties, came in complaining of cramping and migraines, twenty-nine weeks along.”

“BP is one-seventy, over one-nineteen.”

The woman was on her side, a whole score of nurses and doctors around her. It was always double the team for pregnant ladies. When there were two patients to care for in a package of one.

“Six grams of magnesium going in.”

You floated around the room, Whitaker following you like some guard dog. You took in everything going on, reading stats and taking in numbers everyone gave to you. “Okay, ma'am, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robin. It seems you have a medical condition called preeclamsia.”

The woman's eyes were teary and dark as they looked up to you in fear. “Wh-what?”

“Preeclampsia. Now that we know what it is we can help you.”

“But it was- it was just a headache,” she cried, hand cradling her stomach on instinct. “Is my baby going to be okay?”

“We are doing everything to make sure you and the baby do just fine,” you assured her, speaking a language you'd become fluent in. Diagnosis and comfort. Sometimes, when the job got tough, you wondered if you even really believed the words you were saying. They just floated from your tongue typically. 

“The thing is with your condition we have to take you up to OB and deliver this baby,” you told her. 

“OB's been paged,” Santos informed you. 

“But it's too early,” the woman sobbed, clutching at her rounded stomach like she could keep the baby there. 

“I know but the baby's pulse is strong which is good,” you told her. “And if we want to keep the ball rolling in the right direction we have to got to get to it now, okay?”

“Doctor Robin,” said Whitaker. “Labs are back in.”

“Read them to me.” You were still holding the lady's hand over her stomach, trying to comfort her. 

“Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFT's are... woah-”

“Don't hold out on us Huckleberry, what's going on?” asked Santos. 

“They're high- real high-”

“Which can mean?” you ask out to the room, remembering the hundreds of times Gloria reminded you off your status as a 'teaching hospital,'. 

“HELLP syndrome,” said Denis. 

“Point to you.”

Under your hand the patient began to tremble. A quick glance at the monitor showed her blood pressure rising. Panic, most likely, something else it could have been entirely. 

“Hey, boy or a girl?” you asked, watching her eyes flicker. “Do you know what you're having?”

She blinked slow. “Boy.”

“Any name ideas?”

Her mouth had opened to say something but instead of a name vomit spewed, rolling down the gurney and splashing your scrubs- the one time you didn't put on a gown. 

“Oh shit- she's seizing!”

Everyone and you reacted quickly in holding her, trying to calm her shakes. 

It had never happened before, you'd never had so many senses tuning it an once but the smell of her breakfast wafted up to your nose. An un-familiar roll in your stomach curdled and you pursed your lips shut, turning away and burying your nose into the still fresh part of your scrubs. 

“Fifteen litres on by mask!” Whitaker yelled. “Intubation?”

He was looking to you. 

You shook your head, unable to speak with half your focus going on calming the insides of your stomach.

“With all the seizing we can't get a read on the baby's status,” said Santos. 

Fuck- you'd have to say something. You couldn't leave a fresh doctor and student into clampsia blind. “Ultrasound,” you breathed out, still unable to face where the sick started to soak into your scrubs. “Check on baby!” 

If Santos and Whitaker thought it was strange they said nothing, following you orders and relaying what they found. 

“Doctor Robin- do we intubate?”

Another set of hands came up to help steady her and you could back away. 

Even your shoes hadn't been spared the mercy of the vomit. 

“Not yet, push keppra, four grams.”

Grabbing clothes cutters you quickly sliced at your scrub top, thankful you were wearing something long sleeved and covering more of you then a simple vest. 

With the top in shreds you could finally breath but your stomach didn't get the memo.

“Pulse Ox eighty-eight!”

Groaning, you pulled the tray out for intubation, handing it to Santos. 

She glanced at you. “Hey, you look a bit-”

“- don't say sick or I'll throw up on you,” you warned, following her around like she was your new human shield. You wondered if she'd be flattered or pissed if you admitted she was. “Push probofal.”

“Pushing.”

Eventually the seizing stopped with everything you pushed to get her stable and you moved quick. It was like putting everything else on aeroplane mode, shutting off your own systems to get hers stable.

“Intubate, get an EEG to check her brain levels. She's paralysed now but her brain could still be seizing.”

You slipped in sick, grabbing yourself on the nearest doctor and thanking them. You stayed for the intubation only then knew you couldn't hack it anymore. 

You fled the room, bumping into Samira on your way out. 

Dana jolted up. “Hey, what're you-”

“-get Robby in trauma one.”

You found the nearest bathroom, locked it and threw up everything. You hugged the toilet like it was your anchor, your body curling into the movements. Time escaped you, it could have been minutes it could have been hours but finally you fell back and flushed, wiping away everything. 

You were young, you weren't as old as your husband. You'd had less experience in traumas all together, however you were a good doctor, capable enough to be a fellow attending. 

Several substances had been chucked over you in your time. Blood, vomit, piss- some you didn't even know the name off. 

Why had today been any different?

Clearing yourself up: re-tying your hair, washing out your mouth and applying Chapstick, cleaning your shoes and wiping tears from under your eyes, you blamed it on the bagels you'd had that morning. 

It was the only logical explanation.

Leaving the bathroom you felt momentary guilt and fleeing but spotted Robby already taking your place in the trauma. 

“Hey, hun,” Dana was at your side quick, gentle and peering at you closely. “What was that about? You doin alright?”

“Yeah,” you hummed. 

“You throw up? You sick?”

“No, I-” you thought of every other time you'd lied to Dana and how it never went well. “Yes but it's probably just food poisoning. Don't tell Robby.”

If Robby knew you were sick- after already having been worried this morning- you'd be driven home in twenty minutes flat. 

“Robby always finds out,” said Dana. 

You ignored her and pushed open the door to the lounge. She didn't follow and you were left with spare seconds to yourself. 

Your hands shook slightly as you fetched a glass to fill with water. To cool yourself down you ran your hands under, splashing the back of your neck with some. You gargled water and spit it back, ready to drain the glass and wet your sudden parched mouth when Langdon appeared in the door. 

“Hey, I've got a head lac I need you to take a look at.”

Because you were an attending. Because of the kind of person you are you put down the glass and followed him.

“She just ran out?”

There was the all too familiar buzz of the sanitiser dispenser as Robby helped himself to a generous blob before rubbing it into his hands. A beat behind, Denis did the same, following in his footsteps- literally. 

“Er-yeah,” he said, working fast to absorb every bit of hand sanitiser. “She ordered the EEG and bolted.”

Robby nodded, taking it all in clinically. “You said she looked pale?”

“Yeah but, she had just been thrown up on.” 

Being thrown up on wasn't a pleasant experience but he hadn't known you to run from bodily fluids. 

“Where is she now?” Robby asked, as if Denis was the soul person to look out for you. Well, Robby trusted Denis, a gift he didn't bestow on many so he did expect Denis to keep an eye on you at all times. 

“She went to the bathroom but I don't know now.”

Robby checked the bathrooms, finding you void of those spaces. He checked the lounge where nothing but a deserted glass of water sat.

He was almost panicking when he saw the back of you and Frank in a room. 

He paused. 

You were sat next to a young girl, holding her hand. Although he couldn't hear you he imagined the softness of your voice as it always became when dealing with a pedes case. You'd always joked that if the ED wasn't so in need of two attendings at a time you'd have left his ass for pedes upstairs at once. 

Robby didn't think so. For one, you'd miss his face, for the second thing- you liked bouncing from one emergency to another, switching off and relying only on your skills. 

You hadn't been bouncing around as quick as usual the last couple days. He realised it only in that moment.

Frank was standing with his arms folded over his chest, pitching in every now and then and also getting the girl to smile. 

He didn't want to go in, break the concentration and trust you'd formed with the small child. He'd find you later. 

Whatever was going on, the two of you clearly had it handled. 

Your dreams came to you in fades. 

There was first an annoyingly weird dream about a animal circus finding it's home in the Pitt. They said work followed you home, but it even followed you into dreams which seemed just un-fair. Then there was a stork on an elephants back. How would an elephant even get in to the place?

They turned to some much more enjoyable memories that had your body warming un-consciously. 

Robby's weight pressed down into yours on the couch in your living room. You'd begged him to put everything on you, to not hold himself up and with-hold his moans. 

And because you'd asked, he did. 

Robby wasn't a light guy and you liked him like that. The weight of him crushing you, his spit swapped with yours, sweat of his body being shared and the fingerprints you could feel at your hips. 

“Oh fuck sweetheart, oh fuck!” he'd groaned out loud. 

You felt parts of him deep in you you didn't know you could feel and still you wanted more. Your locked your ankles around his backside, keeping him into you in short and sweet thrusts. 

“Oh, you like that? Jesus Christ,” he grunted into your neck, unable to hold himself up even if he wanted to. “So greedy. Fuckin' so greedy!”

“Please, Robby, please!”

Steady hands were sudden at your shoulders and a body pressed up to yours, decidedly unlike how one did in the dream. 

“Go home,” said Robby. 

You picked yourself up from where you'd dozed off, your head in your arms folded over on the counter. In front of you, the computer was blank. “Hm?”

Robby's eyes bored into yours. “Go home, you're sick.”

“It's only twelve. I'm not sick- I'm fine,” you said, waving off his hand as it came up to test your temperature in the very medical practise of hand on forehead. 

Robby shook his head. “You were dozing this morning, you're asleep now, you threw up-”

“Dana, I told her not to say anything!” You cursed under your breath. 

“Not Dana, Whitaker,” said Robby, looking at you with brows draw in, somewhere between anger (or as angry as he could get at you) and concern. “Did you tell Dana not to tell me?”

“Because you worry.” You used your secret trick of overwhelming affection to try to starve off Robby. Your hands were clammy as they held his cheeks, fingertips grazing over his beard just how he liked. He was kneeling at your side, melting into your touch. “I'm fine.”

For extra measures you pressed a kiss to his forehead and walked away. 

There was a split second of head spinning blur. The sort that had you reaching out to balance yourself. It lasted maybe two seconds but enough to worry you. 

If you hadn't taken such care in tending to Robby's own distraction he'd have clocked it and dragged you home himself. 

You maybe weren't so fine. It wasn't every day you felt as tired as you did now, and however good the night before had been Robby had given you more. Plenty. You'd surpassed twenty-fours working in the ED with no sleep so nothing could phase you. 

But being phased you were. 

The lack of sleep.... the throwing up... maybe you were coming down with something. 

You'd thrown up last week too, so it couldn't be food poisoning like you were trying to convince yourself it was. 

Robby hurried after you, the jingle of his keys and ID card and such jangling. “I'm keeping my eyes on you.”

“Sexy.”

In trauma one the two of you worked together with a score of doctors and nurses. Mrs Albany- the pregnant lady with clampsia- demanded attention. Perhaps it was a waste of two attendings working on the same patient. 

The emergency c-section you had to perform made the one patient two and as Robby worked to keep the mother alive you worked on the child, stimulating the baby boy till he breathed, wiping off the fluids and bloods and sighing when he cried out. 

Under the gown and mask you could see Robby's own dimples at you as you both saved lives. 

But the tang of iron from the uterus and child filled your nostrils and upset you close enough to tears. You were glad Esme had cleaned up the sick from early and equally as glad you had the chance to throw up your breakfast so you couldn't do it again. 

“Holy shit!” Santos celebrated, yanking off her gown and gloves next to you as you did the same, “That was crazy!”

The baby was pushed by you, heading up to the NICU, the mother following, a pulse low but steady, heading up to the OR.

You ducked away from Robby as he followed the pair out. You took Santos with you, a pushing hand on her back. “Yeah, it was- listen I've got a patient that needs blood results quick, you think if I get it you can rush it up to labs, on an ASAP basis.”

Santos frowned. You knew what she was thinking before she even had to say it. It was a boring job, her skills were better off etc. 

“Please?” you asked. 

It took a roll of her eyes but she agreed to. 

Five minutes later you had a vial of your own blood handed to her. 

An hour later Santos found you, Ipad in hand. 

“Hey, got the results for your patient,” she said. “Where are they? What room? I couldn't see them on the board?”

Dana would have had something to say about taking your own blood and getting it to labs without telling anyone. Robby too. As attending you should have been chastising yourself but there was no time for that. No need, either. 

Doctors made the worst sort of patients, especially when they felt they didn't need to be one. 

“Er, she left, discharged herself,” you lied quickly, trying to get a gage on the results that were cradled in your arm.

“Bummer. I wanted to give her good news. Or bad.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant.”

You stopped in you tracks. 

It took Trinity at least four more paces before she realised you had. 

The blood works showed just that. High HCG levels, you red blood cell count was high. Along with the nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells it made sense. 

You were pregnant. 

Inside the stomach that had been churning all day sat a life fully depending on you to take care of it. Suddenly none of your med school training mattered. Nothing you'd ever down before mattered. Looking after patients was one thing. You didn't have to go home with them, check they drank enough or ate enough, didn't have to check in with their boss they were taking it easy. 

You struggled to look after yourself. 

Throw a baby in the mix and you were doomed. 

Chuck in Robby and you were-

Robby. 

Jesus Fuck. You'd never spoken about kids. You'd only been married a year and were still in what some considered the 'honeymoon' phase.

“Everything okay?” asked Santos. “Did I miss something in the results?”

You cleared your throat. “No. No, that all... looks good. I'm just gonna take a small break. Quick one. Thanks.” 

“Hey, Robby!” Denis called as he walked out from the ambulance bay. “Congratulations!” 

“Thanks, Whitaker.”

It took Robby seconds to pause and think. What was he being congratulated for? The fact he went outside for some air? It wasn't impressive. Was it the quick life saving procedures they'd made on mother and son that sent them both upstairs alive? That was over an hour ago and Denis had been in the room. 

Robby back tracked to Whitaker. “What am I being congratulated on, exactly?” he asked. 

Whitaker looked at him like he was crazy. “The good news.”

Good news? The last good news he had was marrying you a year ago, and Whitaker had been at the damn wedding crying more than his own grandmother. 

Robby shook his head. 

“The good news, you'll be a great dad.”

Robby chocked on his breath, leaning on the counter. “Wh-what?” he chuckled in a breath. 

“You're pregnant? I mean, not you, obviously, I-I know how it works. But you're having a baby, that's-that's what they say and I just wanted to say well done. Or not well done! No, that came out wrong, jus-”

Robby had let him stumble on his words as he tried to figure out what he was saying. The baby? What baby? “Denis, what are you talking about?”

He looked around quickly for you but couldn't see you. 

“Oh my god, you didn't know, you didn't know did you?” Whitaker's face paled, his entire body sinking. “Santos told me, she told me not to tell anyone but I-I figured I could tell you! I guessed- oh god, did I just tell you your wife is pregnant?”

His wife...

Pregnant...

And Robby was finding out from Huckleberry!

Robby took a step around the counter and Denis stumbled back into his chair. “Are you telling me she's...”

Whitaker nodded when the words failed him. 

Robby thought back to the sickness you thought he'd missed last week, the way you fell asleep at the computer earlier and the general exhaustion. He tried to think back to what night could have been 'the one' but somewhere along the line you'd both stopped being careful. Condoms were abandoned in draws and your pack of contraceptive pills were still full.

“Doctor- Doctor Robby? Do you need to sit down?” Denis asked. 

Robby waved him off and gave himself one minute to compose himself. He knew panic, it was an old friend he'd lost contact with over the years, yet it returned to him then. 

“Where is she now?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don't- I don't-”

“Huckleberry!” he tried not to expose his fondness of the nickname Santos had given him but it slipped out in the most desperate of times. 

Denis gulped, knowing this. “Exam room three.”

Robby nodded and made a be-line, Casey was asking him a question as he passed but he held up a hand, ignoring her. 

Santos stepped out the room, closing the door and stopping when Robby almost collided with her. “You can't go in there.”

Robby inhaled a deep breath. It was one thing having Whitaker be the one to tell him you were pregnant. It was another to have Santos blocking him from seeing you. “Doctor Santos if you don't let me through you will miss every trauma that comes through those doors.”

Luckily, he knew how to work Santos. 

Her arms budged over her chest. “For how long?”

Whatever you had promised her to keep him out must have been just as grand a prize. “Till I see fit now let me in.”

It was like a western stand off for longer than Robby would have liked. Every second he spent out of your room was longer you were spending alone. 

Eventually, Trinity sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine, whatever, but she promised me first dibs at a REBOA for doing this. I expect that to still stand.”

Robby pushed through the room and snapped back the curtains finding you at the edge of a bed, the wand of an ultrasound hidden under your top and the grey scale picture of a baby on the monitor. 

To your credit you didn't flinch or move as he stood there.

“Lets be real this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.”

In five minutes Robby had wiped down your stomach of the gel, had helped pull your top down and sat with you on the edge of the patient bed, the curtain back to being pulled over and hiding the two of you from traumas and agitated patients and doctors alike. 

“How long have you known?” asked Robby. 

There was no anger, no mean undertones. It was frightening rather blank, the way he spoke. You'd always prided yourself on knowing how to tell when he was in a good mood or bad from the smallest of tics he had. 

He'd trained them out of himself apparently. 

Yet- he'd given you his hand and you'd pulled it into your lap, holding it and trailing your own fingers over his. 

“The time's now-” you peeked over him at the clock over the door. “- about an hour and thirteen minutes.”

He shook his head, scoffing out a smile that pronounced his wrinkles. “Why didn't you come to me?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders. “I thought I was just sick, you know? So I thought I'd get some bloods and see.”

“Did you do the bloods yourself?”

You looked at him and that was telling enough. With the hand that wasn't with yours he rubbed at his temple in aggravation. So far there'd been little to no talk about the baby growing in your stomach but more concern about how you'd gone to finding out. 

“You should've got me,” he said. 

“Well if I thought I was pregnant I probably would have.” You tried to joke but it fell flat. 

“Probably?” he repeated quietly. 

Silence went by with only the ticking of the clock as company. 

You held onto his hand, readying yourself for the question yet to be asked. “Are you mad at me?”

Robby shook his head but didn't look at you.

“Annnnd are you mad at...” you couldn't say baby yet. Didn't know if giving the clump of cells in your stomach a name would scare him off. 

With the hand in your lap his fingers entwined with yours and clutched tight. 

“I know we never talked about kids and this wasn't planned in the slightest,” you said even if you knew Robby had stopped pulling out months ago, favouring the way you felt when your walls swallowed him up. “You can be angry.”

“You keep asking if I'm angry, do you want me to be?” he asked, finally a touch of emotion in his voice as it rose an octave. “Are you mad?”

That was the question. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwanted. You couldn't say that seeing the way mothers caressed their stomachs when they came in with spotting or concerns didn't have you thinking of your own child one day. That talking to that little girl with the head lac earlier with Frank didn't cause a pang of longing in your heart. 

You'd never tried to pretend you didn't want everything with Robby. Even if you've never discussed what everything was to each other. 

“When I was in med school I thought I'd have it all worked out long before now,” said Robby. “Marriage and kids. Maybe on my second marriage by now.”

You dug your elbow into his ribs, rewarded with a quick, breathless laugh. 

His eyes creased as his face scrunched up. “Didn't work out. Guess I... gave up thinking it could.”

“Then you met me, right?”

Robby looked at you. His eyes were like glass as he looked you over, his lips titled, cheeks red under his beard. He looked- if you didn't mind saying so- like a man mesmerised. He nodded. 

“I thought you didn't want kids,” you said. 

“Do you?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 

“Do you?” you threw back to him. 

He squeezed your hand and gave you a look. 

“I think I do,” you admitted, quietly, as if you could take it back if it displeased him. “I don't know if I'll be good at it. I hardly have time to look after myself, let alone a baby. And I don't want to be one of those people that gives up work for kids cause I love my job but... I think I could love a kid, too.”

Robby nodded along with what you were saying, a smile brightening everything you thought looked dark in him.

“Do you want kids?” you asked. 

“Oh, kids?” he teased. “You're so sure its twins already?”

You rolled your eyes as he nudged his shoulder with yours, rocking the both of your bodies. 

“I want everything with you, I said so much in my vows, didn't I? You thought I was lying, Doctor Robin?”

You couldn't help but smile at the nickname he gave you and was proud to call you. After all, calling out for two Robinavitch's in an emergency proved difficult quickly. “I don't believe your vows included, I want to fuck you so hard and deep you get pregnant within the first year of marriage.' ”

“Dirty mouth, cussing like that,” said Robby, his eyes drifting down your lips as he bit down on his own. “Have to sort that out before the baby gets here.”

“Lucky we have eight months to train it out of me.”

Robby's nose had just brushed yours before he was pulling back, studying you again. His gaze drifted to your stomach, wondering if the manifestation of your nights had started to show. “You're a month along, already?”

You clocked your head side to side. “Give or take a week or two.”

“Eight months it is.”

Robby kissed you, licking into your mouth and breathing you in with deep breaths. His large hands held your cheeks and kept you in, all but drowning you in lips and touch and love. He tilted his head aside, kissing you deeper. 

At once the doors banged open and arguing voices drifted in. 

Robby pulled back with his head lowered in disappointment while you licked the taste of him off your lips. “I swear to god, these kids-” he grumbled as Denis and Trinity stumbled in. 

“Seems like you got the dad thing down already,” you said, hand rubbing up and down in his back. 

The intruders had a hoard of things in arms. Denis was carrying a large bear in hand that almost drowned him as he struggled to hold him. The bear was holding a blue heart sewen into its paws while Trinity was struggling in pulling the pink balloons in. 

It seemed they'd already made bets on what baby they wanted you to have.

“We er, wanted to get you these,” said Denis. “Sorry for ruining the surprise.”

“I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything,” said Santos with a scoff. 

“You told me,” pointed out Whitaker. 

“Yeah and I told you not to tell anyone, fuckleberry then you tell the dad!”

“I thought he knew!”

“I told you in confidence!”

“You were laughing while you were telling me! That wasn't every confident!”

“Oh my god, it's a figure of speech!”

You laughed at the two of them, hiding your face in Robby's scrubs as he leant his head back toward you. 

“You think they'd notice if we started trying for baby number two now?”

[total-killer-brainrot]

"Happy Pride, sir." You called as you passed him.

Ghost froze. Eyes narrowing behind the mask. Voice eerily calm when he responded.

"Why you sayin' that to me? I'm not gay."

Quickly you felt the tips of your ears burning. Rushing to apologise.

"Oh! I wasn't assuming- I just-"

"Teh fock do ye mean yer not gae?!"

[ildico-the-golden]

an almost date with dada?

i had not expected the modernAU drabble to be so popular (i love you guys so much it makes me tear up fr) so here's like a kinda second part to that (?).

Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader // modern!Maekar x f!reader

Warning(s): modernAU, these men are down bad

The text from Valarr arrived twelve minutes before you were supposed to meet.

so terrible news. kiera situation. cannot make it. SO sorry. dad said he'd go instead if you still want to?? he's literally already in the area for work. no pressure obvs

You stared at your phone for a moment.

is your dad going to be weird about it

Valarr's response was immediate.

dad is constitutionally incapable of being weird about anything. also he literally works at the museum three streets away so he's probably already mentally in the bookshop. please go he'll be sad if you cancel he's been in meetings all morning

You looked at that for a second. The image of Baelor Targaryen being sad about missing a bookshop trip was doing something to your composure that you chose not to examine.

fine, you sent back. tell him I'm at the corner table

THANK YOU you're literally saving his day, Valarr replied, and then, after a brief pause: and probably mine too bc kiera is

He did not finish the sentence. You sent a sympathetic emoji and put your phone down and ordered a coffee and tried very hard not to think about the fact that you were now waiting for your best friend's father in a cafe on a Saturday afternoon, which was a sentence you were choosing not to examine too closely.

He arrived seven minutes later.

You knew it was him before you looked up properly — there was a quality to the way he moved through the cafe that you had catalogued during the various times you had been at Valarr's house and found yourself in the same room as his father. Unhurried. Certain of his own pace. The kind of person who did not navigate around other people so much as other people instinctively made space.

He was wearing a jacket that suggested he had in fact come directly from the museum — slightly more formal than a Saturday probably required, dark, the kind of jacket that had probably lived on the back of an office chair all morning — and he was carrying, you noticed immediately, a book. Not in a bag. Just — in his hand. Like he had picked it up to read on his walk over and had not put it down yet because he was still thinking about whatever was on the last page.

He found you, and something in his expression arranged itself into warmth.

"I'm sorry about Valarr," he said, settling into the chair across from you with the ease of someone who had decided this was simply the situation and there was no point in making it awkward. "Kiera rang him about twenty minutes ago — I'm not entirely sure what happened but it sounded significant."

"He sent approximately four apology texts," you said.

"That sounds right." He set the book on the table and flagged down the server with the unhurried confidence of a man who had been in many cafes and knew how they worked. "He felt terrible about it. He was very insistent that I — I believe the phrase was do not be boring."

"Are you boring?" you asked.

He looked at you over the menu with those eyes — attentive, with the quality of someone who was already slightly amused by the question. "I work in a museum," he said. "Specialising in medieval and Byzantine history. The jury, I think, is still out."

"Byzantine is genuinely fascinating," you said. "The iconoclasm period specifically."

The menu lowered approximately two inches.

"The iconoclasm period," he repeated.

"The politics of it," you said. "Everyone talks about it as a theological dispute but it was fundamentally a power struggle between the emperor and the church dressed in theological language, which is—"

"Which is significantly more interesting than the religious framing suggests," he finished, and there was something in his voice that had not been there thirty seconds ago — a quality of attention that had sharpened from polite and warm to entirely focused in the space of one sentence about Byzantine iconoclasm.

You had said something right.

You were not going to examine how much you wanted to keep saying right things.

The coffee arrived.

Baelor ordered his with the automatic ease of someone who did not need to think about it — flat white, no sugar — and settled back in his chair and looked at you with the expression of a man who had come here expecting a pleasant if slightly obligatory Saturday afternoon and was recalibrating.

"How do you know about the iconoclasm period?" he asked. Not testing. Genuinely curious, in the way of someone who has encountered something unexpected and wants to understand it.

"My grandmother," you said. "She was obsessed with Byzantine history. Had about forty books on it. I grew up reading them because they were the most interesting things in her house."

"What else did she have?"

"The complete collection on the fall of the Western Roman Empire by Gibbon. Three books specifically on Theodora — she had strong opinions about Theodora."

"Everyone should have strong opinions about Theodora," he said, with a conviction that suggested this was not a casual statement.

"She also had this absolutely unhinged book about the administrative structure of the Carolingian empire that I read when I was fourteen and found genuinely compelling."

Baelor set his coffee cup down.

He looked at you for a moment with an expression you had not seen from him before — not the warm composed attention of Valarr's father being polite to Valarr's friend, but something more unguarded than that. Something that looked, if you were reading it correctly, almost like delight.

"The Carolingian administrative structure," he said.

"It was a very good book," you said.

"I think I own that book," he said. "I have recommended that book to colleagues who hold doctorates in medieval history and been looked at like I was suggesting light reading."

"The section on the missi dominici alone—"

"Is extraordinary," he said, and then caught himself, and the tips of his ears went very slightly pink in a way that you were fairly certain he was unaware of. "Sorry. I'm — Valarr did say not to be boring and I've just launched into—"

"I brought up the missi dominici," you pointed out.

"You did," he said.

"I knew what I was getting into."

He looked at you for a moment. Something shifted in his expression — a recalibration, subtle and complete, like a man who has been holding a map of a situation and has just realised the map and the territory do not entirely match.

He picked up his coffee. "Right," he said. "The missi dominici."

They closed the café.

Not intentionally. It simply became apparent at some point — you were not sure exactly when — that the afternoon had developed a quality of its own that neither of you had planned and both of you had stopped managing. You had gone from Byzantine iconoclasm to the Carolingians to a twenty minute debate about whether the popular historical narrative around the fall of Rome was more politically motivated than academically honest, during which Baelor had leaned forward with his elbows on the table and the expression of a man who had stopped remembering to be measured about things he found genuinely exciting, which was — a lot. It was a lot. His hands moved when he talked about history, which you had not known about him, and he had a specific smile that arrived when you said something that surprised him, which was different from his usual composed warmth and considerably more dangerous to your ability to function normally.

He was not being smug about knowing things.

That was the thing that had been doing something to your composure since approximately the iconoclasm conversation. He could have been smug — he worked in a museum, he had the credentials, he had probably forgotten more about medieval history than most people ever learned. But every time you said something he did not expect he looked at you like you had shown him something he genuinely wanted to see, with the uncomplicated delight of someone who loved a subject and was simply glad to find another person who loved it too.

It was, you had concluded somewhere around the second coffee, the most attractive quality you had ever encountered in another person and you needed it to stop immediately, but it was not stopping.

"We should probably—" he said, at the point when the server had refilled your water glasses for the third time with the pointed patience of someone whose shift was ending.

"The bookshop," you said.

"Right." He reached for his jacket. "Although at this point I feel I should warn you that I have — opinions. About the history section."

"What kind of opinions?"

"The kind that Valarr refers to as dad, please and that my colleagues find professionally embarrassing."

"Tell me the opinions," you said.

He looked at you. The smile that crossed his face was not the composed public one. It was something underneath that one — warmer and more unguarded and slightly helpless, the smile of a man who had been trying to be measured and had run out of reasons to bother.

"Right," he said. "The opinions."

The bookshop was three streets from the café and was exactly the kind of place that seemed to exist specifically for people like Baelor — floor to ceiling shelves, the particular quality of light that only occurred in rooms full of old paper, a complete absence of any organisational logic that was somehow navigated instinctively by everyone who belonged there.

Baelor belonged there immediately and completely. You watched him walk through the door and visibly relax in the specific way of someone arriving somewhere they understood.

"History is in the back," he said, already moving. "Past the travel section, which is organised by continent rather than alphabetically, which I have thoughts about, and through the archway. Don't let the archway fool you — it looks like it goes to philosophy but it doesn't."

"Sounds like you've been here before," you teased.

"I may have a tab," he said, without turning around.

You followed him through the travel section — organised by continent, as advertised — through the archway that did not lead to philosophy, and into a room that was essentially floor to ceiling history, organised by period, with handwritten shelf labels that had clearly been redone at some point in the last decade and not entirely consistently.

Baelor stopped in front of the medieval section and looked at it with the expression of a man surveying a landscape he had complicated feelings about.

"The Byzantine section," he said, "is filed under Eastern Europe, which is—"

"Reductive," you said. He turned to look at you. "Historically, geographically, and culturally reductive," you continued. "It's like filing Rome under Italy."

He stared at you for a moment.

"I have said those exact words," he said slowly, "to the owner of this shop. Twice. In those exact words."

"What did he say?"

"He said that's where people look for it." A pause. "Which is pragmatic and also completely misses the point."

"It completely misses the point," you agreed.

Baelor looked at you with that expression again — the unguarded one, the one that had been appearing with increasing frequency since the missi dominici and that he appeared to be losing the ability to fully manage. There was something in it that was different from the version you had been cataloguing during visits to Valarr's house. Warmer than that. More specific.

"Right," he said, and turned to the shelf, and you watched the back of his neck go very slightly pink.

You were extremely pleased with yourself.

An hour later you had accumulated a small pile of books each — his significantly larger than yours, though he had shown you each one with the genuine enthusiasm of someone sharing things they loved rather than performing expertise, which was the thing that kept doing the thing to your composure — and had ended up side by side in the narrow aisle between medieval and early modern, which was not a wide aisle, consulting the shelves with the proximity of people who had stopped noticing the proximity because the conversation had taken over.

You reached for a book on the top shelf at the same moment he did.

Your hands did not quite collide but they came close enough that you both stopped.

He was — close. The aisle was narrow and he was taller than you and the combined effect of both of these facts was that when you looked up you were looking at him from a distance that was significantly less than the distance that had existed between you at the café table, and the expression on his face in the half second before he registered that he needed to have an expression was—

Not composed. Not the curator. Not Valarr's father being politely warm to Valarr's friend. Just a man, in a bookshop, standing very close to someone, with an expression that had not been filtered through any of the usual management.

He registered it approximately one second after you did.

You watched the composure return — not completely, not at its usual speed, the edges of it slightly uneven in a way they were not normally — and he took the book from the shelf and held it out and said, very evenly: "This one is worth reading. The author's thesis about manuscript transmission is contested but the primary research is solid."

"Thank you," you said, taking it.

"The footnotes specifically," he said, to the shelf.

"I'll read the footnotes specifically," you said.

A pause during which the narrow aisle continued to be narrow.

"We should probably find the till," he said.

"Probably," you agreed.

Neither of you moved immediately.

Then he did — stepped back, with the slight over-correction of a man giving a situation more physical space than it strictly required — and you followed him toward the front of the shop with your small pile of books and the specific warmth of an afternoon that had not been what either of you planned and had been, despite or because of that, one of the better ones you could remember.

At the till he paid for his books with the focused attention of a man concentrating on a transaction and not on anything else, which was so transparently what it was that you looked at the display of bookmarks near the counter rather than at his face because you were kind like that.

Outside on the pavement the afternoon had gone golden, the particular late Saturday light that made the city look briefly like somewhere worth staying.

"Thank you for not cancelling," he said. He was looking at the street rather than at you, with the quality of someone choosing their words carefully. "I'm aware it wasn't — you came to spend the afternoon with Valarr, not with his—" he stopped.

"I had a very good afternoon," you said simply.

He looked at you then.

"So did I," he said. The composure was there but the edges were still slightly uneven and you could see, if you knew where to look, which you did, the thing underneath it that he was managing with less success than usual.

You smiled at him.

He looked at you for a moment longer than was strictly accounted for by polite conclusion of a Saturday afternoon, and then he said goodbye and that he would tell Valarr you had survived his abandonment, and walked back in the direction of wherever his car was.

You watched him go for approximately four seconds before you got your phone out and opened Valarr's chat.

your dad knows about the missi dominici

Valarr's response took thirty seconds and consisted entirely of a series of increasingly alarmed emojis followed by

oh no oh no are you okay

You looked down the street in the direction Baelor had gone. You thought about the narrow aisle and the unguarded expression and the pink at the back of his neck and the smile that had been arriving with increasing frequency and decreasing composure since the iconoclasm conversation.

I am so normal about your dad

that's a lie

It was, in fact, a lie. You decided to brush it off instead.

how's Kiera

He sent back a very long string of text that you read while walking to the tube and that successfully occupied your attention for approximately three minutes before your brain returned, with the reliability of something that had found a preferred direction, to the bookshop and the narrow aisle and Baelor Targaryen saying the footnotes specifically to a shelf because he needed somewhere to look that was not your face.

You were, you concluded, in considerable trouble.

You heard him before you saw him.

You and Daeron had been on the sofa for the better part of two hours, working through a series of increasingly bad decisions in the film he had put on, when the sound came from upstairs. Not loud exactly. More — sustained. A specific quality of noise that suggested a man encountering a situation and responding to it with his full vocabulary.

Daeron paused the film. You both listened.

Another burst of it, muffled by the ceiling but comprehensively audible, featuring several words in combination that you were fairly certain constituted a new grammatical construction.

"That's the bathroom," Daeron said, with the calm of someone who had been hearing his father swear at inanimate objects for his entire life and had developed a classification system. He stood up. "That's the bad bathroom."

"How many bathrooms are there."

"Four." He was already heading for the stairs. "Only one of them is currently antagonising my dad, which statistically is pretty good for this house."

You followed him up.

The bathroom was at the end of the upstairs hall and the door was open and the sound of water was immediately, obviously wrong — not running water, not shower water, but the specific urgent sound of water going somewhere it was not supposed to go with considerable commitment to the project.

Daeron stopped in the doorway. You stopped behind him and looked over his shoulder and took in the situation.

The cabinet under the sink had been fully removed — it was propped against the wall behind the door — and the pipes beneath were exposed and one of them was, there was no other word for it, enthusiastically wrong.

Water was going in several directions with the democratic generosity of something that had decided if it could not go one place it would go all places. A wrench and several other tools were arranged on the sodden bathmat with the organisation of someone who had started this project with a plan and had encountered escalating complications.

Maekar was on the floor.

Specifically he was wedged half under the sink with his legs out, in jeans and a dark t-shirt that had not survived the situation in any meaningful way — soaked through, hair wet, jaw set with the expression of a man conducting an intense personal negotiation with a section of copper piping. His forearms were braced against the cabinet frame and there was water dripping from his elbow onto the already comprehensively wet bathmat and he had not yet registered that he had an audience.

He said something to the pipe. It was not a nice thing.

"Dad," said Daeron.

Maekar turned his head. Took in Daeron. Took in you behind Daeron, with the brief additional quality of a man who had forgotten a guest was in his house and was now processing this in the context of being soaking wet on a bathroom floor.

"The compression joint went," he said, which you recognised as an explanation directed at Daeron and as a form of dignity preservation directed at you. "Hand me the adjustable wrench. The large one."

Daeron looked at the arrangement of tools on the bathmat with the expression of a man confronting a foreign language.

"Which one is—"

You reached past him, picked up the adjustable wrench, and held it out. Maekar's hand came out from under the sink and closed around it and then stopped. He turned his head and looked at you. Not at Daeron. At you.

You held his gaze with the equanimity of someone who had grown up watching their father fix things and knew what an adjustable wrench looked like.

He took it.

You watched him go back to work, the specific focused efficiency of someone who knew what they were doing, and you watched him encounter the problem — the angle was wrong, the joint was seated badly, there was a secondary issue with the isolation valve that he had not got to yet — and you watched him get to the point where what he was doing was not going to work.

"The valve," you said. "The isolation valve on the left — it's not fully closed. That's why the pressure's still—"

Maekar stopped.

He came out from under the sink enough to look at you properly. Water dripped from his hair. His expression had the quality of a man who had received unexpected information and had not yet decided what to do with it. "How do you know about isolation valves," he said. Not rudely. Just — directly. The way he said everything.

"My dad," you said. "He does all of this for a living. I grew up handing him tools."

Maekar looked at you for a moment. Then he looked at Daeron.

Daeron, who was still holding nothing and had the slightly glazed expression of a man who had identified this situation as one he was not going to be useful in, gave a small shrug that communicated don't look at me with minimal effort.

"The valve's behind the— you'd have to get down here," Maekar said, which was not quite an invitation but was the closest thing to one that his current position and dignity allowed.

You pushed past Daeron.

You dropped to your knees on the wet bathmat without hesitating, which you felt Maekar register even though he said nothing, and looked at the pipes with the assessment of someone who had spent enough Saturday mornings under kitchen sinks and in airing cupboards to know what she was looking at.

The isolation valve was most of the way closed but not fully — a quarter turn away from where it needed to be, which was enough to maintain the pressure that was making the repair impossible.

"Got a flathead?" you said.

A brief pause. Then the flathead screwdriver appeared in your peripheral vision. You took it, reached in, gave the valve the quarter turn it needed, and felt the pressure in the pipes ease almost immediately — the aggressive water going several directions becoming a manageable drip and then, mostly, stopping.

"There," you said. "Now the joint should seat properly."

Silence.

You turned your head.

Maekar was looking at you from approximately eighteen inches away with an expression you had not seen from him before. Not the gruff default. Not the frown at something failing to cooperate. Something that had not fully decided what it was yet, moving through several registers in the space of a second — surprise, reassessment, and something underneath both of those that arrived and was immediately and firmly pushed somewhere else.

"Right," he said.

He went back to the joint.

You stayed where you were and passed him things when he needed them — not waiting to be asked, just reading the work and anticipating it the way you had learned to do at your father's elbow, handing things over with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew the rhythm of this kind of job — and you felt him register each time, the slight adjustment in his attention, the way he started to reach for something and found it already there.

At some point Daeron, in the doorway, ceased to exist as a presence in the room. You were not sure when this happened. You were not sure when you stopped tracking anything except the pipes and the work and the specific focused quality of being next to someone who knew what they were doing.

"Jointing compound," Maekar said.

You found it. Handed it over.

He worked in silence for a few minutes — good silence, the silence of someone who was inside a problem and making progress. You watched his hands. He had good hands for this kind of work, large and certain and knowing where to be, and there was water still dripping from his forearm onto the bathmat and you were, you noted with some resignation, very wet from the knees down and did not care even slightly.

He tightened the joint.

Reached past you to the isolation valve and opened it by degrees, carefully, watching the joint.

No drip.

He opened it further.

Still nothing.

He opened it fully and you both watched the pipes for a long moment with the specific quality of attention that plumbing demanded — not quite trusting, not yet — and the joint held and the water went where it was supposed to go and Maekar sat back on his heels and exhaled.

You sat back on yours.

The bathmat was thoroughly destroyed. Your jeans were wet from the knee down and there was something that appeared to be jointing compound on your left hand and probably on your face as well given that you had pushed your hair back at some point without thinking about it. Maekar was still comprehensively soaked, water drying in his hair, jaw slightly less set than it had been when you came in.

He looked at you.

"Your dad's a plumber," he said.

"Plumber, electrician, general person of all trades," you said. "He used to take me with him on weekend jobs when I was small. I was useful for getting into small spaces."

Something moved through Maekar's expression. Not the almost-smile exactly — something that happened before the almost-smile, the thing that decided whether the almost-smile was going to be permitted. "You handed me the adjustable wrench before I asked for it," he said.

"You were about to ask for it."

"I hadn't said anything."

"You didn't need to." You looked at the now-functional pipes with the mild satisfaction of a finished job. "The body language was pretty clear."

He looked at you for a moment.

Then he looked at the pipes.

Then he looked at you again, and this time the thing moving through his expression stayed a beat longer before he put it somewhere — the reassessment fully completed now, the previous category clearly revised, something in the revised version that he was choosing not to examine in a wet bathroom on a Saturday afternoon with jointing compound on the bathmat.

He chose correctly for approximately four seconds.

Then his gaze went, briefly and entirely without his permission, to your hands — to the water still tracking down from your wrists along your forearms in the specific way that wet things did — and something happened in his expression that was there and gone so fast you might have missed it if you had not been paying the exact quality of attention that you were paying.

You had been paying exactly that quality of attention.

He looked at the pipes again with the focus of a man who had found something to look at that was not your forearms and intended to look at it until the situation resolved itself.

"The valve needs a new washer eventually," you said, kindly, because you were a kind person. "It's seating a bit soft. Not urgent but worth doing before winter."

"Right," he said.

"I can tell you what to get if you want. My dad has a supplier — trade prices."

Maekar looked at you with the expression of a man receiving information that was practical and useful and entirely beside the point of what was currently happening in his head and who was grateful for the practical and useful information for exactly that reason.

"That would be useful," he said.

"Great." You stood, brushed the wet from your knees with the philosophical acceptance of someone who had made peace with the bathmat situation, and became aware for the first time in some minutes of the doorway.

Which was empty.

You and Maekar both looked at the empty doorway simultaneously.

Daeron had, at some point during the isolation valve situation, simply — ceased to be there. No announcement. No explanation. Just the specific absence of a young man who had assessed a situation and made a strategic withdrawal with his coffee and his survival instincts intact.

You looked at the empty doorway. Maekar looked at the empty doorway.

"He does that," Maekar said.

"Does he."

"When he decides he's not needed." A pause. "Or when he decides something is none of his business."

You looked at Maekar.

He was looking at the doorway still, with the expression of a man who had just heard himself say something and was assessing whether it had meant what it might have sounded like it meant and what, if anything, to do about that.

He appeared to conclude: nothing. For now.

"I'll get you a towel," he said, standing with the efficiency of a man who had identified a practical action and was grateful for its existence. "You're soaked."

"So are you," you pointed out.

"I live here," he said. "It's different."

He went to the airing cupboard in the hall and came back with a towel and handed it to you with the directness he brought to everything — no ceremony, no hovering, just the towel, held out, yours if you wanted it. You took it and he went to get one for himself and came back and you both stood in the bathroom doorway drying off with the comfortable ease of two people who had just fixed something together and had not yet decided what to do with the afternoon that remained.

"Thank you," he said. Not elaborately. Just the two words, said with the weight of someone who meant them and did not see the point of dressing them up.

"It was a straightforward fix," you said.

"It wasn't," he said. "The angle was bad and I'd missed the valve." A beat, during which he appeared to consider whether to say the next thing and decided to. "You didn't make a production of it."

You looked at him.

"Neither did you," you said. "About me knowing."

Something in his expression acknowledged this — a small precise movement, almost but not quite the almost-smile. "Daella would have filmed it," he said. "For — what do they call it."

"Content," you said.

"Content," he repeated, with the tone of a man for whom this word had never fully made sense and had stopped trying to make it. "She would have made it content."

You laughed.

It was a real one — the unguarded kind, arrived without warning — and you watched it land on Maekar with the specific quality of something he had not anticipated and was not immediately sure what to do with. The almost-smile made a full appearance this time. Brief. Real. Directed entirely at you.

He looked away first.

Downstairs, at a volume suggesting he was in the kitchen and had decided the kitchen was where he lived now, Daeron turned the television on.

Maekar looked at the ceiling briefly with the expression of a man who knew his son and had drawn accurate conclusions.

"There's tea," he said. "If you want. Before you go."

It was not please stay. It was not I would like you to stay. It was Maekar, offering tea, in the specific way of someone for whom there is tea if you want was as close as he was currently able to get to either of those things.

You had grown up watching your father fix things. You knew how to read what was underneath what was said.

"Yeah," you said. "I want."

He nodded once and headed for the stairs and you followed him and downstairs Daeron turned the television up slightly, for absolutely no reason, in the way of someone who was providing cover for a situation he had chosen not to witness and had absolutely engineered anyway.

You sat at the kitchen table with wet jeans and jointing compound on your hand and watched Maekar make tea with the same focused efficiency he brought to pipework and thought that you were, objectively, in considerable trouble, and that it was entirely worth it.

A.N.: i promise there will be a third because we have to jump on these sexy old men, we cannot leave it like in the middle of it. For those who have read Dalgliesh's how you call to me, yeah, Baelor's part here was heavily inspired in it (i just love him so much as a nerd)

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @mongrelcryptid @sacha1slytherin

Want to join the general taglist? Leave a comment here!

[gcx23]

That's his daughter. I won't be convinced otherwise.

[swamp-roo-deactivated20230128]

how the fuck do people just stay motivated their entire lives? what drives you? I got out of bed once and i’ve been exhausted ever since.

[thepittmemes]

they deserve so much and they steal the show for me

[homesickly]

i luv being a freak <333

[sapphicswph]

⸝⸝ me to use ༄.°

warnings : housewife!reader x emery . nsfw , mdni . strap (r!receiving) . fingering (r!receiving) . oral (r!receiving) . praise . overstimulation . possessive emery . biting/marking . established relationship .

wc : 2k

find the request here

you’re making breakfast while emery is in the shower, you could tell she had a rough night shift when you saw her earlier. her eyes tired, grumbling something under her breath you couldn’t quite make out and kissed you quickly.

you’re cooking eggs exactly how she like them. while the bread is in the toaster, you hear the bathroom door clicking shut, then soft footsteps.

emery walks out in a white tank top and a pair of basketball shorts, hair still wet. she leans against the doorway, watching you for a minute with a slow, half-lidded look. not a full smile, just the corner of her mouth ticking up.

you look up and smile the second your eyes locks on hers. “the food is almost already, just need to get the guacamole and finish these eggs.”

she hums, eyes drifting over your form slowly. “not very hungry, if i’m being honest.”

you let out a small chuckle. “don’t be silly, you’re going to complain later and i’m not dealing with that. i’m not letting you sleep hungr-.”

she cuts you off by stepping right behind you, one hand sliding around your waist, fingers pressing firm through the thin fabric of your top. “leave the food.” her mouth brushes the shell of your ear. “i can eat later.”

your hand still on the spatula. you feel her other palm settle on your hip, tugging you back against her. “em, at least let me-“

“nope.” she clicks the stove off and turns you around easy, backing you up until your ass hits the counter edge. up close you can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her jaw’s a little tight. she needs this.

“been stuck in the OR for hours,” she mutters, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “thinking about coming home to you.” you part your lips without thinking and she slips her thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue just enough. your eyes flutter. she watches it like it’s the best thing she’s seen. “yeah? that what you want too?”

you nod, sucking lightly.

emery pulls her thumb free and kisses you instead. her hand bunches up the back of your skirt, gripping your ass and lifting you just a little so you’re pressed tighter to her. you make a small needy sound against her mouth and she smiles into the kiss, all smug.

“bedroom,” she says when she pulls back. she walks you backward down the hall, hands never leaving your body, steering you exactly where she wants. when the back of your knees hit the mattress you sit automatically. emery stands over you for a second, eyes dragging down over the apron you forgot you were still wearing. she reaches out and tugs the tie loose with one finger.

“take it off. slow, for me.”

you take your top off slowly, eyes locked on hers the whole time. then drag your skirt down until it pools around your feet. she watches every inch like she’s memorizing it. then she hooks her fingers in the waistband of your panties and tugs them down your thighs. you lift your hips to help, kicking them off along with your skirt when they reach your ankles. the bra stays for now. she likes unwrapping you piece by piece.

instead of pushing you down she sits on the edge of the bed and pats her lap. “c’mere, baby.”

you climb on, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her thighs. her hands settle heavy on your waist, sliding up your ribs and back down. the tank top she’s wearing is thin, you can feel the heat of her skin underneath. you lean in and kiss her again, slower this time, hands cupping her face. “your shift was that bad?” you whisper against her lips.

“you have no idea.” she nips your bottom lip. one hand moves down between your legs, fingers sliding through how wet you already are. “fuck, you’re soaked. been thinking about me too, huh?”

you rock against her hand, breath catching. “mmhm, been thinking about you, coming home.” you bite your lip, leaning in to whisper against her ear. “fucking me so hard that i can’t use my legs.”

emery groans quietly and pushes two fingers inside you, deep and sudden. you gasp, forehead dropping to her shoulder. she curls them perfect, thumb circling your clit while her other arm wraps around your back to hold you steady. “that’s it,” she murmurs, voice low right by your ear. “use my fingers, baby. get yourself off.”

you roll your hips for a few minutes, grinding down on her hand while she mouths at your neck, sucking a mark just under your jaw. the wet sounds fill the room and your thighs are already starting to shake.

“em- fuck, right there…”

“yeah? gonna come already?” her voice is teasing but rough. she speeds up her thumb and you come embarrassingly fast, clenching around her fingers, moaning into her neck. she keeps moving them, drawing it out until you’re lifting your hips, trying to ease yourself off her fingers.

she pulls her hand free and holds her fingers up to your mouth. “clean them up.” you wrap your fingers around them, tasting yourself, sucking slow while she watches with dark eyes. her free hand squeezes your ass appreciatively.

then she stands, lifting you with her just enough to flip you onto your back on the bed. you watch as she peels her tank top off, then her shorts and boxers, tossing them aside. she opens the bedside drawer and pulls out the strap. you bite your lip as you watch her step into it, adjusting the buckles around her hips before lubing it up. the sight alone makes you clench around nothing.

“you want it?” she asks, climbing back between your legs. she drags the tip of the strap through your folds, teasing your clit until you’re squirming and reaching for her.

“please, baby. need you inside me.”

she pushes in slow, inch by inch, one hand holding your hip down so you can’t rush it. you moan loud when she bottoms out, so full and deep. emery stays there for a second, breathing against your collarbone, letting you adjust.

“good?” she checks, voice quieter.

“so good. move, please.” you whimper.

she starts fucking you, steady and hard, hips snapping in a rhythm that has the bed creaking. every thrust hits your spot, making sparks shoot up your spine. you grab at her back, nails digging in. “harder- fuck, like that.”

emery leans down, bracing on her forearms so she can kiss you, biting your lip and sucking on your tongue while she pounds into you. “all mine,” she groans against your mouth. “this pussy. mine to use.”

you nod frantically, legs wrapping tighter around her waist.

she reaches between you and rubs your clit and you come again, harder, back arching off the bed, crying out. she fucks you through it, slowing but not pulling out, grinding deep while you shake and pulse around the strap.

after a minute she eases out, flips you onto your stomach, and tugs your hips up. “ass up for me.” you do, knees spread, cheek pressed to the pillow. she spreads you open with both hands, then her mouth is on you, tongue licking broad and greedy through your soaked folds. you moan into the pillow as she eats you out from behind, tongue pushing inside while one hand reaches around to play with your clit.

“tastes so fucking good,” she mutters, voice muffled. you push back against her face and she lets you, humming approval that vibrates right through you. it’s overwhelming, too much in the best way, and you come again with her tongue buried in you, thighs trembling.

you’re boneless when she finally pulls back, body heavy and buzzing, face half-buried in the pillow. emery climbs up the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under her weight as she slots herself against your back. she pulls you up with her, arm locking tight around your waist as she sit behind you. her skin’s warm and a little sticky, heart still thumping hard against your spine. for a minute it’s just the two of you breathing, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip, slow and absent like she’s not even thinking about it.

you turn your head enough to kiss along her jaw, tasting salt on her skin. she hums low, the sound vibrating through her chest into yours. her hand keeps moving, drifting lower, until her fingertips brush between your legs again. the second she circles your swollen clit you jump a little, hips twitching away on instinct because everything’s so sensitive it almost hurts.

“easy,” she murmurs right against your ear, voice rough and quiet. she doesn’t stop though. just keeps those slow, deliberate strokes, feather-light at first, letting you get used to it again. “you can give me one more.”

your eyes are already watering, every nerve ending on fire. you nod anyway, breath shaky. “okay...”

emery bites down lightly on your shoulder while she keeps working your clit with patient little circles, sometimes dipping lower to drag through the mess between before coming back up. her breath is hot against the back of your neck, steady but getting a little shorter every time you whimper.

“that’s my girl,” she whispers, lips brushing your skin. “still so fucking wet for me. you love when i use you like this, don’t you?”

you press back against her, nodding. “yes, baby-” you mumble, voice cracking a little on the last word because she’s pressing firmer now, two fingers sliding over your clit in tight, slick strokes. you’re trembling already, thighs trying to close but she quickly pull them back apart, using strength.

“please-“ you gasp, reaching back to grab at her hip, fingers digging in.

she makes this low, satisfied noise in her throat, like your begging is doing it for her. her hand settles back on your hip and grips you harder, pulling you back as she starts grinding the strap against your ass in slow rolls, like she can’t help herself.

“yeah? you gonna come again for me?” her fingers speed up just a fraction, steady and relentless. “wanna hear you. let it out, baby.”

you whine, overwhelmed and strung tight, hips rocking between her hand. “shit, i’m close, i’m so close.” you blabber.

she bites down harder on your shoulder when you cry out, hips pressing firmer against your ass as she works you faster. she makes a small sound, her breathing getting rough. she’s getting off on this. “good fucking girl. come on. let me feel it.”

it hits you slow and deep, rolling through your whole body in heavy waves instead of a sharp snap. your thighs shake hard, a broken moan tearing out of you as you clench around nothing, soaking her fingers. emery doesn’t let up right away. she keeps stroking you until the orgasm drags out so long your vision goes fuzzy at the edges.

only when you start whimpering from the overstimulation does she finally ease off, sliding her hand up to rest on your stomach instead. she kisses the bite mark she left on your shoulder, soft and lazy, arm tightening around you again.

“there you go,” she breathes against your skin, voice low and satisfied. “did so good for me.”

[jadeittic]

Six Weeks Minimum

summary: after a bad fall leaves you with a broken leg, brendon turns your recovery into a full-time mission. no matter how insane he gets about your healing, every moment becomes proof of just how deeply he loves you.

pairing: brendon park + fem!reader

word count: 4.8k

warnings/tags: surgery mention, overprotective!brendon hehe, established relationship, excessive supervision as a love language (but not in a bad way!)

notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

The first thing you realized after your surgery was that the anesthesia haze was temporary.

The second thing you realized was that Brendon Park being insane about your recovery absolutely was not temporary.

It started in the hospital. The fracture had been bad enough. It was a clean break, the orthopedic resident had explained while showing you the scans, but unstable enough to need surgical fixation after your spectacularly humiliating fall down a rain-slick stairwell outside your apartment building.

You remembered the pain. The ambulance. The sickening crack that had echoed up your leg.

You also remembered Brendon arriving at the ER. That part had honestly been scarier than the fracture.

Because Brendon Park, the notoriously composed orthopedic trauma surgeon who could calmly handle shattered pelvises while every else spiraled, had walked into your trauma bay looking one bad sentence away from committing a felony.

He'd still been in scrubs. Blood on the sleeve, surgical cap hanging around his neck. His eyes had gone immediately to your leg immobilizer, then your face, then the pain monitor.

"Why is her heart rate still that high?" had been the first thing out of his mouth.

Not hello. Not are you okay. Just immediate interrogation.

The ER nurse, who knew exactly who he was and looked vaguely terrified of him even on good days, had blinked.

"She just came back from imaging—"

"She's already been medicated."

"With what?"

"Brendon," you'd groaned from the bed.

His attention snapped to you instantly, sharp and terrifyingly focused. "Did they move you after the X-rays?"

"Yeah."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes, because my leg is broken."

His jaw had clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.

And somehow things only got worse from there. Because apparently orthopedic surgeons became unbearable when the patient was someone they loved.

You found this out over the next forty-eight hours.

Brendon sat through every consult, every update, every medication discussion.

He questioned your surgeon despite literally being able to perform the operation himself (But he couldn't for obvious reasons).

"You're using the locking plate system?" he asked Garcia with narrowed eyes.

She stared at him. "...Yes?"

"What approach?"

"Brendon."

"What?"

"You are not interrogating my surgery."

"I'm verifying."

"No, you're being annoying."

Then came the surgery, which went well.

Too well, actually, because apparently the moment Brendon heard "successful procedure" his brain immediately transitioned from anxious boyfriend to maximum-security prison warden.

The discharge papers had barely printed before he was taking over.

"No weight-bearing for six weeks," he repeated while adjusting your blankets for the hundredth time.

"I know."

"You use the crutches every single time you get up."

"I know."

"You do not try to hop."

"I'm not an animal, Brendon."

"You joke now," he muttered.

The nurse handed over your prescriptions with visible relief. "You're all set."

You thought freedom awaited you. You were wrong. Because the second you got home, Brendon transformed your apartment into what could only be described as an orthopedic dictatorship.

Within an hour, throw rugs were removed, furniture was rearranged, cords were taped down, ice packs were lined in formation inside the freezer, medications were sorted by time and dosage, and your entire life was relocated to the couch and bedroom so you "wouldn't need unnecessary movement."

You watched all this from the sofa with increasing alarm.

"Brendon."

"Hm?"

"You took my coffee table away."

"It has sharp corners."

"It's a coffee table."

"You're on meds and your balance is impaired."

"Baby, I have one broken leg, not a traumatic brain injury."

The first night home, you woke up at two in the morning needed the bathroom.

And normally, this would not have been an issue. You had crutches, you were medically cleared to use them, you were perfectly capable of traveling the astonishing distance between the bed and the bedroom.

Unfortunately, you were dating Brendon Park.

You'd barely shifted under the blankets before his eyes opened instantly in the dark.

"What are you doing?"

You stared at him. "Were you awake?"

"I am now."

"I need the bathroom."

"Okay."

"...Okay."

But instead of going back to sleep like a normal person, he immediately sat up. Then stood. Then reached for your crutches before you even could.

You blinked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you."

"I can use crutches by myself."

He ignored that. You tried to take the crutches from him, but he held them out of reach.

"Brendon."

"I'm making sure you don't slip."

"You cannot stand in here while I pee."

"Yes I can."

"Brendon."

He finally sighed and backed out exactly one step beyond the doorframe. You stared at him in disbelief.

"Why are you still there?"

"I'm supervising."

"You're insane."

"You love me."

Unfortunately, that was true.

And now, it became a recurring issue. If you adjusted position on the couch, his head snapped up from whatever he was doing.

"Brendon, if you ask me one more question I'm going to fracture your leg too."

"You'd need help reaching me first."

Three days into recovery, cabin fever started setting hard.

You were exhauted, sore, itchy beneath the cast and dressings, and so catastrophically bored that you genuinely considered reorganizing your email inbox for entertainment.

Meanwhile Brendon had become worse. Not better. Worse.

There was something about medical professionals witnessing injuries in clinical detail when it happened to someone they loved.

You could practically see the knowledge haunting him in real time every time he looked at your leg.

So instead of relaxing as you healed, he became even more vigilant. He brought you food, adjusted your pillows, timed your medication down to the minute, and hovered. Constantly.

One afternoon you attempted the dangerous and reckless activity of standing to reach for a book on the kitchen counter.

You hand your crutches, you were stable, you were literally fine. Unfortunately for you, Brendon walked in halfway through.

"What are you doing?"

You nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ!"

"You should've called me."

"For a book?"

"You shouldn't be putting pressure on your other leg for prolonged periods."

He crossed the kitchen in seconds, immediately reaching for your elbow like you were seconds from collapsing.

And then he paused, looking at you properly for the first time all day.

Your messy hair. Your oversized shirt that was definitely his. The irritation building behind your eyes.

Something in his expression softened immediately.

"Honey."

"I know you're worried," you said, quieter now. "I know. But I can't just lie there twenty-four seven while you stare at me like I'm made of glass."

His hand slid carefully around your waist.

"You're not made of glass."

"You treat me like I am."

"That's because you snapped your tibia in half."

"Well, technically it was—"

"Do not correct me on anatomy right now."

He looked exhausted suddently and that finally made the pieces click together.

Brendon wasn't hovering because he thought you were incapable, he was hovering because he was terrified.

Terrified of you getting hurt again. Terrified of complications. Terrified of pain he couldn't fix fast enough.

You reached up, touching the tense line of his jaw.

"Hey."

His eyes flicked to yours.

"I'm okay."

His expression did something painful then. Small. Fragile around the edges in a way Brendon almost never allowed himself to be.

"You were screaming," he said quietly.

"When they moved you in the ER," he continued, voice low. "I heard you from the hallway."

You hadn't realized that stuck with him.

"I've seen people in pain before," he muttered. "Obviously. But hearing you—"

He stopped. You stared at him for a second before your irritation melted clean away.

"Oh, honey."

His laugh came out humorless. "Now I sound insane."

"You are insane."

He rested his forehead briefly against yours.

"You scared the hell out of me."

And for a few days after that, he genuinely tried.

Tried not to hover. Tried not to leap upright every time you shifted. Tried not to track your movements like a paranoid mom.

And that lasted approximately forty-eight hours.

Then he caught you attempting to carry your own tea mug while using crutches.

"What the hell are you doing?"

You froze mid-step. "...Transporting tea?"

"You could spill that."

"Yes."

"You could slip."

"Brendon."

"You have one functioning leg."

"I know."

He took the mug from your hands immediately while looking personally betrayed by your decision-making.

"You are unbelievable."

"I survived medical school," you informed him. "I think I can handle tea."

"That attitude is exactly why you fell down the stairs."

You argued for a good ten minutes. And it dissolved into bickering so domestic and ridiculous that by the end of it both of you were laughing too hard to continue.

Still, the hovering remained. Especially at night.

You once woke up around three in the morning to find Brendon gently checking the circulation in your foot.

"...Baby, what are you doing?" you mumbled sleepily.

"Just making sure swelling hasn't worsened."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I woke up."

Another night you caught him staring at your discharge instructions like they personally offended him.

"Honey, I think you've already memorized those."

"There's a typo."

"You are impossible."

But the worst one, the one that nearly ended with you smothering him with a pillow happened two weeks into recovery.

By then you were mobile. You were comfortable on crutches, restless beyond belief, and deeply tired of being supervised every waking second.

So while Brendon was in the shower, you decided to perform one singular independent task.

Make your own sandwich.

That was it! It wasn't anything dangerous, nothing dramatic, it was just a sandwich.

You were reaching into the fridge when you heard:

"What are you doing?"

You nearly screamed. Brendon stood in the hallway dripping wet, hair soaked, shirt barely put on, staring at you like he'd walked in on a crime scene.

"How do you move so quietly?!" you yelled.

"You weren't in bed."

"I was just making lunch!"

"You should've called me first."

You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "Did you just tell me I should request supervision before making a sandwich?"

"No, I'm not saying—It's just that you're still recovering."

"I have a broken leg, Brendon. Not a terminal illness!"

"I know."

The sharpness drained right out of him and he looked tired again. Worn thin around the edges.

"You think I don't know I'm overdoing it?" he said quietly. "I do."

"But every time I look at your leg, all I can think about is what could've happened if you hit your head too. Or if nobody found you right away, or if the fracture had been worse."

He exhaled slowly.

"And I know you're capable, I know you can use the crutches, I know you're not helpess." His mouth twisted faintly. "You're probably the least helpless person I know."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

"Because I love you."

You looked at him standing there. An exhausted surgeon, damp hair dripping onto the floor, eyes shadowed from stress and lack of sleep. You felt your irritation unravel completely.

"You realize this level of hovering is classified as annoying."

"Last time I checked it was called caring?"

You laughed despite yourself. "C'mere, baby."

He stepped closer instantly. You wrapped your arms around his waist carefully, leaning into him while balancing on one leg.

His hands settled against your back with automatic gentleness, like he was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt you somehow.

"I love you too," you murmured.

"I know."

"But if you follow me into the bathroom one more time, I'm filing a restraining order."

"That seems excessive."

He kissed the top of your head to hide his smile. And annoyingly enough?

Even with the hovering, and the overprotectiveness, and the absolute loss of personal autonomy...

You'd never felt more loved in your life.

thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)

[robinavitchslut]

subby!robby who likes to suck his gf's breast milk until his tummy is full 🥵

UGHHHHHHHHHHHH YESSS!!!! and u know what’s so funny i literally messaged @shoniebalognie yesterday saying we need more robby breastfeeding kink fics sooooo….u need to get out of my head anon!!

and if i made it mommy kink……

subby!robby has a breastfeeding kink (f!reader)

wc: 1.8k

warnings/tags: breastfeeding kink, mommy kink, subby!robby, f!reader, talks of pregnancy and pregnancy related stuff, two mentions of their unnamed daughter (he’s a girl dad sue me), handjob, oral (m!), cum swallowing, mentions of readers postpartum body, obvs breast milk drinking.

it had been another one of those days in the ED, one of those ones where everything and anything that can go wrong does go wrong. one of those days where the weight of robby’s responsibility feels too heavy to bear, where he just wishes for one minute his name wasn’t robby, where he wishes he wasn’t in charge, where he wishes everyone would just leave him alone.

still, at least he had you to come home to, his beautiful postpartum girlfriend. you were truly the only thing getting him through that shift, the thought that in just a few short hours he’d get to come home to his best girls, get to see you sitting on the couch still so swollen and round from having his baby only a month or so ago.

the sound of the door closing and robby’s bag dropping to the floor with a heavy dull thud jolts you out of your sleep. you had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to come home, robby told you multiple times that you didn’t need to wait up for him, that the bed would be much better for you to sleep in but it just didn’t feel the same without him in it.

“long day?” you ask as robby lets out one of his signature deep sighs. you rub the tired from your eyes and peer over the back of the couch to look at him, he looked exhausted, well and truly burnt out from his terrible day.

robby drags his hands down his face before nodding, “like you wouldn’t believe, how’s she been today?” he’s shuffling over to you now, his feet unable to lift off the floor as he makes his way over. he’s kicking his shoes off before flopping onto the couch beside you, falling into you with his head resting on your full chest.

“aw, my poor baby,” you coo with a frown “my other baby’s been good, she went down about an hour ago.” you wrap your arms around his head and hold him against you, placing a soft kiss to the top of his head. he shifts to bury himself in your clothed tits. nuzzling his face all in their warmth, taking in your familiar calming scent.

immediately you feel robby soften, his shoulders relax and he becomes almost limp as he breathes you in. his hands come up to toy with the hem of your top, the backs of his fingers grazing the bare skin of your soft tummy underneath. “can i?” he asks, peering up at you with those big brown eyes that you could never say no to.

“go ahead, baby” you smile softly at him and nod. robby leans back and pulls your top over your head. your full, swollen breasts bounce against the swell of your postpartum stomach as they’re freed from the too tight top you were wearing.

robby takes them in, his pupils blowing wide open as he devours them with his eyes. it’s not hungry though, it’s something much more gentle, more soft than the look he would’ve given them before you became pregnant. something in robby flipped when you told him you were expecting. before he was ravenous, wanted to be on you all the time, possessive and borderline rough. but now, whenever he saw you all bare like this he just melted into this sweet little puppy who didn’t know the meaning of the word rough.

“have you pumped today?” robby asks, lowering his face so he’s inches away from your hard nipple. he looks up at you and you shake your head, “not since this morning, had a feeling you’d be having one of those days.” you stroke the side of his face, your nails lightly grazing through his greying beard. he smiles back up at you, a content, lazy smile that has your heart hammering in your chest.

your daughter had stopped taking breast milk a week ago so you had been bottle feeding her formula instead. however, your body was still producing milk and a lot of it at that. but it was fine, robby would never let any of that go to waste.

“thank you, mama” he hums before closing the gap, his lips wrapping around your swollen nipple. his tongue darts over it a couple of times before he softly hollows out his cheeks and suckles on your breast. your eyes flutter closed at the same time as his, a satisfied hum reverberating from each of your throats.

robby’s hand comes up to massage your other breast, gently rolling it in his hand to relieve some of the pressure he knows has been building up all day. the mild taste of your milk hits his tongue and suddenly all his worries and stresses wash away. your hand is still caressing the side of his face, stroking and scratching lightly at his moving cheeks.

“mm, there you go. feelin’ better, baby?” you purr, your breathing becomes steadier as you feel yourself relax, the pressure in your breast slowly coming down. robby hums and nods around your breast, just gently sucking on your nipple, swallowing the steady stream of milk that you’d saved up just for him.

when the stream slows to a drip, robby lets go, releasing your breast from his mouth with a wet pop. he looks up at you, his eyes half-lidded with a lopsided smile on his face before he leans up to kiss you. you can taste yourself on his tongue, it’s dizzying.

“taste’s so good. so perfect, love you so much, thank you mama” his voice is so soft and breathless once he pulls away from the kiss, your eyes are blown wide now, dizzy with desire for him.

“s’okay, baby. mama loves you too” you kiss his forehead before he leans down again, this time swirling his tongue around your other breast. you let a soft gasp escape your lips, heats building fast in your stomach, there’s just something about how gentle and submissive robby can be that got you so worked up.

he latches on again, his tongue working your nipple as he sucks gently. his hands are on your naked waist, just holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him there. you slide your hand down his chest over his scrubs, pawing and grabbing at his soft tummy on your way down to his own waist. your fingers clumsily fiddle with the button of his cargo’s before you finally manage to pop it open and unzip them.

you slip your hand in and pull his soft cock out of his pants, lazily pumping it in your hand as he feeds on you. he becomes hard almost instantly and the way he’s groaning around your nipple now has your eyes rolling back from pleasure. you give his cock a gentle squeeze before quickening your pace.

“mmm, y’like that baby? like it when mommy gets you off while you’re being so good f’me? making me feel so good, such a good boy f’mommy” you’re babbling now, completely lost in the moment. robby looks up at you, his deep brown eyes so intoxicating you can help but get lost in them.

“mhmm” he’s moaning around your nipple, sucking harder, faster, not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel it. which you do, deep in your core.

pre leaks from his flushed tip, dripping down your knuckles as his hips buck up to meet your fist desperately. you can’t help the giggle that falls from your lips, “someone’s a little needy today, huh? such a greedy little baby, bet you’re just dying to cum aren’t you? that what you want? want mommy to make you cum in her hand?”

robby releases your breast from his mouth and surges up to kiss you, it’s not forceful, just desperate. your free hand comes up to his shoulder, pushing him back down. “god, you are needy today.” you laugh, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.

“s-sorry mommy” robby whimpers, his hooded eyes dropping to where your hand is wrapped around his throbbing cock, watching intently as you jerk him off. his hips writhe under your hand, you can tell he’s trying so hard not to thrust up, trying to be a good boy for you.

“s’okay baby, i know you can’t help it. just a greedy little thing aren’t you?” you reach over to kiss his cheek, your hand caressing the side of his face again and he leans into it, nuzzling your palm.

“ye-fuck—yeah, just need you so bad, mommy. want to be inside of you” he whines, his eyes rolling back as he nears closer to his orgasm. his hands fly up to grip your waist, needing to hold onto something, anything to keep him still.

“i know, baby. i know. but the doctor hasn’t cleared me yet, don’t want to hurt mommy do you?” you coo, throwing out your bottom lip. your recovery had been taking a little longer than expected, much to both of yours dismay.

robby shakes his head feverishly, his bottom lip thrown out just like yours. he’s panting now between small whimpers that 6 months ago he would’ve been embarrassed about, but not now. how could he be embarrassed to show the woman who gave him everything how good she makes him feel, how much he loves her?

his veins pulse under your hand, you can tell he’s about to cum and so you get onto your knees and bend down to press a wet kiss to his leaking tip. robby groans then, a guttural groan ripped straight from his chest, groans that don’t stop coming as you wrap your lips around him and start sucking, hollowing out your cheeks while you bob your head in tandem with your hand.

“fuck–mommy, oh fuck. shit–i’m gonna, oh god—” robby groans wildly now, not bothering to stop his hips from thrusting up into your face as his body shakes. his hand flying up to grab a fistful of your hair as he spills into your hot mouth, filling up your cheeks with his thick release.

you swallow around him, making sure not to waste a single drop, just like he had done with you. after a few more sloppy thrusts into your mouth he stills, collapsing backwards onto the couch, his tummy heaving as he tries to catch his breath. you pull off then and crawl over him, lowering yourself onto his chest as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tight to him.

“th-fuck–thank you, mommy” he huffs out breathlessly, his hand coming up to stroke the back of your head, patting your head a few times before he lazily presses a kiss to your forehead.

“s’okay baby, i trust you’ll pay me back for all of this when i’m cleared…” you giggle and robby returns the laugh, though it’s half-hearted through his exhaustion.

“oh yeah…and then some”

a robby mommy kink fic has been a long time coming. god, idk where this came from, blacked out and there it was oopsie. hope you enjoyed <3333

want to be added to my robby taglist .ᐣ reply to this post ᝰ.ᐟ (taglist is tagged from another acc)

robby masterlists

[whichwayisthebeach-seabass]

Treating me like you’re supposed to do (tears run down my thighs)

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Summary: The three times you failed to get Robby to indulge your little fantasy, and the two times he did (with an Abbot assist)

Warnings: 18+ SMUT - it’s piss! oral sex (m and f receiving) p in v sex, discussion of exploration of kinks, edging (I think), spitting, spanking, choking, Jack Abbot lowkey being their third from the cuck chair and enjoying it, age gap, indulgent use of daddy, did I mention there’s piss in this?

Author’s Note: no but seriously dead dove do not eat. Robby is pissing sexually in this one. Reader doesn’t have a piss kink as such, she just loves Robby a lot - maybe its her first serious relationship - and she wants him to piss in/on her because he’s a repressed old man and she wants him to let goooooo and be vulnerable (and claim her as his in the only way her caveman brain can think of???). She gets a little angsty when he’s resistant because it feels like rejection of her love okay it’s not about the kink it’s about her big feelings… or something. Also this is long. Like really long.

If you asked Michael Robinavitch about how his sex life was going, he’d probably turn beet red and scratch the back of his neck like if he scrapes with his dull nails hard enough, he’d find the answer. Because the truth is, the sex is good, insanely good, absurdly fucking good.

Robby had reached an age where he’d made peace with the fact that the nuclear family was never going to be his lot in life; too old now to find a nice lady to settle down with, get married, pop out a couple kids and a dog and grow old together behind a nice little picket fence. Hell, he’d be lucky to get any action before he finally retired and signed himself into a nursing home - he’d seen enough cases come through the ER to know the retirees were having all the fun, at least he had that to look forward to.

And then you came along, and things long thought forgotten had burst into bloom. Embarrassing as it had sounded, Robby had forgotten what it was like to be fond of someone, to feel endeared by their thoughts and personality and actions. You endeared him, affected him so much it scared him at first - okay, you definitely still scared him. But Jack had said that that was a good thing, that he needed to feel fear to remind himself that he was alive, or something.

Robby didn’t think he needed to feel fear in this particular aspect of his life, considering his chosen career, but he took it in stride, more than happy to let you take the lead. He was already overtly aware of the imbalanced power dynamics that could develop within your relationship due to the age gap, but you never seemed bothered by it. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. “Just ‘cause the wrappers wrinkled doesn’t mean the candy isn’t sweet, baby,” you’d say proudly, a satisfied curl of your mouth as you kissed him with a firm grip on his cock until he forgot what he was worried about in the first place. He just didn’t want to be the overbearing old guy who weighed you down, clipped your wings because he couldn’t control you any other way.

Plus, you were blowing his fucking mind.

Robby wasn’t a virgin by any means, he was in his 50’s for Christ’s sake. He’d had his fair share of flings and one night stands over the years, he’d even had relationships here and there. But the sex had never been the mind-blowing, transformative experiences he was having with you. It was all very sweet, the amount of missionary he’d done over the years. The romantic, hand-holding, maintaining eye contact, I love and respect you and would never dare ask you you to do anal kind of missionary. It hadn’t even occurred to him that there was any other kind of sex.

He imagines that that conversation would go probably differently with you (which is why he hasn’t asked).

Upon learning Robby was something of a missionary extraordinaire, you suddenly felt like a pervert. A dirty little freak who was about to turn out the chief attending of a hospital ER with your sexual deviancy.

You let him take the lead the first time you had had sex. He probably would have referred to it as making love. You would be inclined to agree.

It was your fourth or fifth date, and he’d been the perfect gentleman, not even deigning to look at you in any way that could be perceived as inappropriate. You’d begun to worry that maybe he didn’t want to fuck you at all. And that would have been fine, of course, you didn’t need sex, you just wanted confirmation of whether or not that was the case. After coffees and movies and dinner dates and sunset river walks, you finally asked him, during your semi-regular lunchtime phone call, if you could just have dinner and watch a movie at his place.

His brows raised in shock maybe, or disbelief.

“Yeah, yeah, course honey. We can do something at mine, need me to pick you up after work?” You huffed a soft laugh on your end of the line.

“Please don’t, I can drive.” There’s silence at the other end of the line, you frown, suddenly worried that you’d upset him.

“Only if you stay the night.” You smile, not missing the way he had left no room for negotiation in his reply, just firm orders to do as you’re told, to comply for his sake. You made a mental note of it and locked the information away for later.

“Sure, dad.” A quiet grunt from Robby’s end is all the answer you get.

“See you tonight, kid,” Robby chuckles before ending the call.

Kid. That was a new one.

Upon opening his door to greet you, you’d merely raised a curt brow at him. “Kid?”

Robby’s ears had flushed pink, instead of replying, he moved aside to let you in, hoping an answer would find him by the time you crossed the threshold into his home. God, you were in his house.

“It’s a term of endearment,” he tried.

“For the snotty prick who bullies your kid during baseball, maybe,” you huffed.

“That bad?” You shrugged, taking off your shoes and setting your bag down on the floor.

“I could learn to like it, I think.” You said, taking stock of your surroundings as you crossed the space, not sure where you were and weren’t welcome.

Hours had gone by in a blur, he fed you - ordering doordash counts as feeding someone, okay? - and then you had melted into his side on the extremely comfy couch, head on his chest watching some old cowboy movie Robby claimed he loved.

He had tried to insist on you picking the movie, but you refused. His house, his choice.

Robby jostled beneath you. Your body wobbled atop the movement. You looked up at him inquisitively.

“Sorry sweetheart, I gotta go.”

“Now? You only just finished work,” you pouted. Robby laughed softly and messed with a loose strand of hair on your head.

“Sure did, I meant I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh! Yeah, sure, obviously.” You hopped up so Robby could stand, grunting like an old man as he did so. Your eyes twinkled at the sound.

“Don’t.”

“Wasn’t doing anything,” you crossed your arms in protest.

Robby kissed the top of your head and moved in the direction of the bathroom, not noticing he had a follower until he went to close the door behind him.

“Jesus christ, sweetheart, you okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to be with you,” you smiled.

“While I take a piss?” Robby’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“…Yes.”

“Funny, go back to the couch, I’ll just be a minute.” He closed the door in your face, just missing out on the lethal glare you shot in his direction.

You sat back down, fidgeted with your hands, no longer all that interested in cowboys. Robby joined you a moment later, reaching for you to lay on his chest again. You swatted his hand softly, ignored his gasp and climbed into his lap.

“Hi,” you grinned, now face to face with him.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Robby said in earnest, kissing the corner of your mouth gently. You sighed, Robby heard you sigh, and retreated, but that was kind of hard to do with you planted on top of his body.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just, can we try something?”

“Course, honey, what is it?” Robby rubbed comforting, calloused hands up and down the expanse of your legs, not letting himself drift too high.

“Can we have sex tonight?” You asked, hoping to sound casual but feeling like fireworks were exploding in your chest.

“Yeah?” He asked softly, but his eyes had darkened exponentially.

“Yeah,” you smiled.

He’d carried you to the bed, insisting it had to be done the right way the first time, you’d giggled as you called him an old man and he’d pinched your side. “I think that’s what you like about me, baby.”

Rendered speechless at the accusation, albeit extremely true, Robby had taken advantage of the opportunity and divested you both of your clothes, made you cum on his tongue, then his fingers, and then he fucked you open on his huge dick.

“Holy shit,” he’d said, after he’d taken off the condom and disappeared into the bathroom to get you a washcloth, cleaned you up, and then lay beside you.

You would have grimaced at him tossing the used cum rag onto his nightstand, but you weren’t fully cognitive yet.

“Holy shit,” you exhaled, still out of breath from the four orgasms he’d just drawn from your body, on his first fucking try.

“That was insane,” Robby had responded, mostly to himself.

He pulled you on top of his chest again, and you both fell asleep like that.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t try anything untoward for a while. About nine months or something, if you were pressed for specifics.

Robby was, by all counts, a fucking gentleman.

He held doors, footed all of the bills, paid for everything, made you cum at least once (more often multiple times) before he even took his pants off, and he always saved you the best bite.

You didn’t want to jeopardise this relationship by being a freak, so you bided your time, lulling Robby into a sense of security - not a false sense of security, you just wanted him to feel safe enough to explore with you.

So you became the perfect little girlfriend, he’d told you as such on many occasions, just not with that exact phrasing. More often groans of good fucking girl as you throated his cock, or soft, bashful “too good to me”’s when you remembered how he took his coffee, when he’d come home to a clean house and dinner on the table, or impressed whistles and murmured Jesus Christ’s when you appeared at the bedroom doorway in a new lingerie set you’d bought with his credit card that day.

But really, the crux of the issue, was that you wanted— No, needed, Robby to loosen the reigns, to let go.

So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when you tried to make a move on him while you were taking a shower together.

He’d gently washed your hair, not the sterile, no-frills technique he’d used the first time you had shared a shower. “Sorry, sweetheart, muscle memory.”

You’d tried not to be offended that he’d associated washing your hair with bathing hospital patients, and closed your eyes, letting yourself enjoy his fingers in your hair.

You told him to spin, once your hair was rinsed, and stretched on tiptoes, your weight distributed entirely in your arms as you leaned on his shoulders so that you could shampoo his hair in kind.

“This is nowhere near as romantic for me as it is for you,” Robby had commented, humour evident in his tone.

“How so?” You asked, faux innocence lacing your words.

Robby chuckled. “Make no mistake, baby, I’m having a good time, it’s just that I can hear your laboured breathing, and your hands are shaky from tip-toeing to reach my head, so…”

You pinched an ass cheek, and cackled when he yelped.

“Trouble, what am I goin’ to do with you?” He tutted.

You rinsed his hair out, and then wrapped your arms around his midriff. Robby hummed as you nuzzled your cheek against his strong back, fingers tracing circles on his soft tummy.

“Feel good?” You asked.

“S’good, baby.” You hummed in acknowledgement, and then slid a finger down the thick thatch of hair trailing down from his belly button to his half hard cock. Not all the way there yet, but piqued in interest.

It never ceased to amaze you how ready he was to go at all times, especially for his age. Every time you mentioned it lightheartedly, mostly just impressed, he’d get this determined look on his face, like he felt he had something to prove - he didn’t - but before you could say anything you’d be on you back, folded in half with your legs over his shoulders. Point taken.

He hissed when you wrapped a hand around his shaft, cooing as you move your hand up, smearing his pre around the tip.

“Kinda hard to see what I’m doing from this angle, handsome, you might have to talk me through it.”

Robby had moaned unabashedly, and then talked you through the handjob.

He finished quickly, as he sometimes did in the morning, fuzzy from sleep, brain not fully operating.

You turned him around and he followed, pliant in your arms as you peppered kisses all over his face. He opened his eyes a moment later, and you found that they were no longer glazed over.

“Hi, baby,” you grinned, feeling overly fond of this big man who’s turned to putty in your arms.

He raised a tentative hand and gripped your hip.

“Too good to me,” he’d murmured, pulling you toward him so he can return your kisses.

However, it doesn’t last. He lets go of you, hands returning to his side.

“Need to piss.”

“Oh.” You said.

“Oh.” Robby echoed.

“Can you… turn around?” You chuckled softly, stopping when you realise he wasn’t joking.

“Are you serious?”

“He’s shy,” Robby had pouted jokingly, but the sentiment seemed serious. The proverbial lightbulb sparked.

“I know how we can fix that,” you mused.

“Oh?”

“Oh,” you affirmed.

You reached for Robby’s hand, and squeezed it firmly. He tilted his head.

“You could… for the sake of curing your pee shyness, piss on me.” You looked up at him through your lashes, big eyes wide and wet as you stared intently, trying to take stock of any micro-expressions he let slip.

Robby’s face doesn’t react so much as something seems to shatter behind his eyes, and then repair itself a moment later. Like he had a glitch and rebooted the system, but something hadn’t yet resumed its function.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I was just kidding,” you offered, your own reboot proving futile.

“Okay,” Robby had answered again, but the question mark was implied. To end the conversation in the only way you knew how, you turned around and faced the wall, effectively putting yourself in timeout, and pathetically pretended not to listen as your boyfriend relieved himself down the drain.

——————————————————————————

You sent him off to work with a thoughtfully packed lunch and a smile. He’d brought his lips to yours and you kissed him back, but all of the heat was gone.

Robby tried miserably not to frown as he retreated down the driveway, not understanding where and when this morning had gone so wrong.

“G’morning, brother!” Abbot had greeted him from the nurse’s station as he entered the ER. Robby had grunted in response, and continued his slough to the lockers.

“Jesus, man, your girl not put out this morning?” Abbot chirped, hiding his concern behind a mocked jab.

Robby huffed, dropping his bag into his locker and taking off his jacket.

“Morning, Jack,” he forced, sounded worse than he felt.

“You know what, I think I preferred the silence. This mood of yours sucks.”

“I think I did something wrong, but I don’t know what…” Jack leaned against the doorway, arms crossing like the situation calls for serious Jack, and this is about as serious as he can muster for early morning.

“What’d you do? Is it her birthday?”

“No.”

“Anniversary?” Robby rolled his eyes.

“We’ve only been dating for nine months, maybe ten.”

“Maybe you missed your ten month-iversary. Women keep track of these things,” Jack nodded affirmatively to the bullshit he was spouting, like he believed any of it.

“No, it’s not that. Everything was fine this morning, and then we showered together, and… and then she wasn’t fine. And she didn’t kiss me back when I left the house.” Jack whistled in disbelief.

“You really fucked up, huh.” Robby scratched the back of his neck, feeling more and more fucked by the minute.

“I guess so.”

“What’d you do, piss on her?” Jack joked, the words click in Robby’s brain, and then he frowns.

“What? No! But she joked about wanting me to, and when I refused, that’s when she went weird.” Robby had felt ridiculous as soon as the sentence had left his body, disbelief apparent, not finding that to be a good enough conclusion for your standoffishness. You wouldn’t have iced him out over him not peeing on you in the shower, right? That didn’t make sense.

Jack Abbot had seen a lot in his life, had built a thick skin, was non-reactive in the face of ER emergencies, of blown off limbs and blood and guts, but upon processing this information, his jaw dropped.

“Fuck!” Robby exclaimed, seeming to have recalibrated to whatever wavelength Jack was currently riding.

“I don’t think she was joking, brother. And I think she’s probably feeling pretty dejected that you don’t feel safe enough to piss on her.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now, man,” Robby sighed, hoping this would end the conversation. This was you they were talking about, and you might be upset at him, but he still felt defensive of you, protective of your relationship. Even if it’s just Jack. Even if it’s just him speculating as to what Robby’s done to upset you. God, he was so screwed.

“Whatever you say, Robinavitch. But that shit is hot, I’d be pissing on your girl all the time if she wanted it as badly as she seems to.”

Robby wouldn’t ever hit Jack, fellow attending, best friend, light of his life and emergency contact, but he sure wanted to smack the curve of his smug mouth off of his face as he watched Jack clearly think about you, in compromising situations.

Robby didn’t see Jack before he went home that morning, but he checked his phone upon receiving a message around 7:30am.

Have a good shift, brother.

A word of advice, create a situation where the opportunity for her to watch you piss will arise, and see how she reacts when you turn her down. You’ll get your answer.

PS: stop being a fucking pussy and have fun

Robby rolled his eyes and pocketed his phone. And yet, Jack’s advice had stuck with him the next 13 hours.

He can’t find you when he gets home. His bladders fucking full and he’s on the verge of bursting, but he’s holding it for you. Love requires sacrifice and all that.

He sits on the couch and waits for your return. The waiting game starts to take too long, and he’s got piss about to leak out of his tip, so he foregoes his little surprise and beelines for the bathroom.

He finds you there, washing your hands.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hi.”

He manoeuvres around you in the direction of the toilet, hurriedly unbuckles his belt.

“D’you want me to leave?” You ask, hesitant.

Robby doesn’t answer until his dick’s out and aimed in the bowl.

“Don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Robby smiles, and then pulls trig. He groans obnoxiously as the first stream pours from him, relief building in his tummy as his bladder empties.

You watch him, really watch him, and he has the decency to pretend he doesn’t notice the way your chest moves visibly with the effort it’s taking you to breathe, or the way your hands fidgeting at its side.

“Can I—“

“What was that, sweetheart?” Robby goads you, all but begging for you to ask, or not to ask, so he can prove Jack wrong.

“Can I hold it?” You finally ask, feeling like such a fucking loser for having voiced the question out loud.

“Oh, I’m just about done here, maybe next time?”

Your posture deflates. Just a little bit. Not much. But enough. Robby noticed. You exit the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

Robby puts his dick back in his pants and flushes the toilet, willing his guilt to follow alongside his piss down the pipes. He washes his hands thoroughly, mostly to buy him enough time to think up his next move.

His phone dings. Jack.

How’s it going over there? Pissed and made up?

He rolled his eyes.

He types back.

No, actually, I made it worse :-(

You suck at this, brother. I forgive you for ignoring my brilliant wordplay.

I wish there was a way we could swap bodies for a night so you could fix this mess for me

Are you talking about freaky friday? I love you, man, but I would rather beat myself over the head with my prosthetic than live a day in your life.

What’s Freaky Friday?

Go fuck your girlfriend, before daddy Jack has to step in.

Fuck you.

Robby loosed a sigh.

He opened the bathroom door, and then followed the sounds of you working on something in the kitchen.

He leaned in the doorway, clearing his throat.

“Dinners going to be ready in a minute,” you answered, not that he’d asked a question.

“Have I done something?” Robby asked, and you halted, almost dropping a hot tray in the process.

“Course not,” you reply, blowing your hair off of your face.

“Okay.” Robby pushes off the doorway and moves to the cupboard, busies himself by getting out plates and cutlery to help you plate up.

You chastely kiss him on the lips. “Thank you.”

He hums and starts cleaning the kitchen around you.

The rest of the night passes in a blur, words going unsaid and in their place, creating distance that neither of you knew how to bridge, having casted yourselves on two separate islands with no row boat, no way back to each other.

You apologised in the morning, blaming PMS on your mood, and he pretended to believe you, pretended he didn’t have your period tracker app linked to his phone, pretended he didn’t know that you were ovulating.

He told you there was nothing to apologise for, and then went to work. Everything was fine when he came home, the tension dissipated, the situation long forgotten.

Peace had been restored to the Robinavitch household.

Jack had hit Robby in the arm so hard he winced, when he found out how poorly the night before had gone. He’d even found himself wishing that Freaky Friday was real because he could have patched this relationship up himself, if his stupid best friend was going to squander this beautiful girl who he never should have been able to pull in the first place, over a little piss.

The conversation went ignored for months. Your shared routine settled. Your lives transitioned from separate to one, his space became our space, you’d all but moved in, drawers held both his clothes and yours, one side of the closet now solely belonged to you, he never had enough clothes to fill two sides anyway.

Things were going great, by all measures.

You just couldn’t shake this one thing. While you had backed down on the piss thing, you had gotten Robby to open up more, and he was at a point where he felt comfortable enough to be able to ask for things, which was astronomical basically, and you had been reduced to tears the first time he’d done it.

He was a little freaked out by the display of emotion, assuming he’d scared you off and trying to backpedal, but full-bodied, gut-wrenching arousal won out in the end after you’d assured him it was just happy tears.

The first time he’d asked for something was spitting.

He was very into it - the degradation, the very act of collecting all the saliva in your mouth, like you’re about to hack it onto the sidewalk, and then drooling it into your partner’s mouth instead like it was something sacred, something to be cherished. You hadn’t told him, but you definitely enjoyed it even more than he had.

You’d been working your way up to asking him to try it yourself after working in tongue sucking into your foreplay routine months earlier.

Then spanking.

It had hurt to sit for days after, but you’d missed the searing welts after they’d gone, the mark of his handprints no longer claiming your skin.

He had felt awful afterwards, cried silently at the sight of your rapidly bruising ass, even though you liked it, even though you told him you liked it, cum smearing your inner thighs as evidence of how much you’d enjoyed yourself. But it had not become a regular part of your sex life.

He’d done it a couple times since, and it had been a better experience, when he saw just how soaked it made your cunt get, how whiny and pathetic you’d gotten while bent over his knee and held down by him.

It had kind of clicked for him then.

It was about you, not him.

You’d pulled him out of his head without even realising, and in return he made you fall apart without even touching your pussy.

Then choking.

Calling him daddy had kind of just been the last puzzle piece to slot itself into place, really, his hand had been rubbing your spit slick all around your mouth, having traded his fingers for his cock, fist in your hair as he choked out a fuck ‘m coming fuck as if the taste of his load wasn’t already on your tongue and invading your senses.

He’d lifted you off the ground and placed you in his lap.

“Such a good girl for me, my good girl,” he’d murmured, kissing your forehead diligently in case his words weren’t comfort and praise enough.

You’d looked so beautiful, with mascara streaking your cheeks, eyes pathetically wet as you gazed up at him like he hung the moon just for you.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when you confidently said, “please fuck me, daddy.”

Robby swore as his hips jerked, you smiled this smug thing that made Robby want to push you onto your stomach and breed your cunt full.

“Say that again, baby,” Robby said, testing the waters.

You got up onto your knees in his lap, hands fisting his shirt. God, how did he still have that on?

“Want you to fuck me, daddy, please. Been such a good girl,” you said resolutely.

Robby nodded, like that was that really, you had been a good girl and good girls deserved to get fucked by their daddy, and stood with you in his arms. He turned, and dropped you onto the mattress on your back.

“Take those shorts off before I rip ‘em,” was the only thing he said as he removed his shirt, finally, exposing solid hairy chest and soft tummy.

You pried the flimsy material off and threw them, not seeing where they landed. And then he was on you.

——————————————————————————

Jack invites you and Robby out for drinks at some bar in town, on an extremely rare night when they aren’t both working. You got dressed and headed downstairs to show off your outfit, a cute top with a slutty little skirt. Robby had taken one look at you, glasses falling down his nose, and told you to change.

“What? No, my outfit is cute,” you pouted.

“Stop being a brat, we’re going to a bar, not a night club.” He spun a finger and pointed in the direction of the stairs.

You stomped your way up the stairs, moving a little faster when you heard him call from the couch, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The ride over had been quiet, pleasant. Mostly because the uber driver probably wouldn’t appreciate you putting your hands all over your boyfriend in the backseat as the night opened its doors, beckoning you in to explore countless possibilities under the moon kissed sky.

Jack had bear hugged you when you entered the bar, twirling you around in the air while you squealed.

“This outfit’s trouble, kid, you trying to seduce me?” Jack had said softly into your hair, you giggled and slapped his forearm.

“Why, is it working?” You asked as he placed you back down, waggling your brows at him.

“Always,” he winked at you, and then left your side to greet Robby.

“I didn’t realise you two were so closely acquainted,” Robby had said gruffly as the pair hugged.

Jack cackled. “Heel, boy, I’m just being friendly.”

He sat at the booth directly across from you, making a show of reaching toward you to flick your arm. Robby rolled his eyes and then joined you on one side, wedging you between the wall and his body.

You were pleasantly buzzed, in that way you can only get in some dingy bar where the music’s shitty enough to ignore but the company is good so it doesn’t matter, and Robby’s right at that point of tipsy where his physical affection is free-flowing and you can’t help but beam under the attention.

He kisses beneath your ear, mumbling something about getting a drink, and then slides out of the booth, leaving you with Jack.

“You lookin’ after our old man?” Jack asked, tone unreadable. He notices your expression drop, just a smidgeon, just a tiny crack in your armour, but he notices nonetheless. You suddenly understand what Robby means about Jack being a bloodhound for emotional turmoil.

“Yeah, course,” you reply flippantly, voice just an octave too high to be buyable. Jack’s eyes squint marginally, reading you like a book. He’s probably got you all figured out and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“I’m trying to. He’s… an unwilling patient.” Jack huffs a soft laugh, he believes that.

“I’ve known the guy longer than you’ve been alive, probably, and I’ve never seen him this light, kid. Trust me, you’ve done more than you’ll ever know. Just keep chipping away at that wall.”

“Thanks, Jackie.” You’re more unmoored by Jack’s little speech than you realised, you clear your throat.

“And also for pretending like you don’t know the ins and outs of our sex life.” Jack threw his head back and cackled.

“Just doing my part,” he saluted you teasingly, and you didn’t know what the fuck that meant, but you didn’t push him on it.

The rest of the conversation is pleasant, he says something that makes you laugh, something about you deserving better than being out on a Friday night with two grumpy old fucks.

Robby’s eyes drifted purposely to you after he hears you laugh. Because it’s not a friendly laugh, or some placating laugh. No. It’s your oh this guy’s so funny I need to fuck him laugh. He knows distinctly what that sounds like, because it’s the laugh you reserve for him when he says something perverted, something nasty, only for you to hear. It had transformed over time, having started when you first began dating, and you had laughed that way, like a caress, like a flirty wink, like you were trying to get into his fucking pants.

He’s not jealous. Per se. No. You’re his girl, and Jack is his best friend. Does he feel a pang of possessiveness? Sure. Is he now feeling a little territorial? Definitely.

It sours his mood, makes him order a shot to down at the bar before he can recoup enough to return to the booth.

“Sounds like you two were having fun over here without me.”

“Robby,” you’d whined, at the same time Jack had repeated the sentiment.

“We were just talking about what a downer you were before she entered your life,” Jack teased, and you cupped a hand over your mouth, stifling an ugly cackle.

Robby laughed, but it was this sad, kind of pained sound, that the tipsy high you and Jack were riding couldn’t entirely survive it.

You looked at Robby, gripped his thigh under the table and tried to read his face. He shook his head softly. You tilted your head at him, and failed to hide your frown when he turned away from you.

You looked pleadingly at Jack, who shrugged. You raised a demanding brow at him, and he softened. Tapped his knuckles against the beer sticky table top.

“I’m feeling pretty beat, you guys, going to head off.” Jack nodded, then slid out of the booth.

You nudged Robby out as well so you could say goodbye.

You wrapped your arms around Jack, feeling a little sad that you didn’t know when you’d see him again.

“You’re welcome in advance, by the way,” Jack whispered in your ear, crushing you tighter against his chest.

“Huh?” You whispered back, but Jack merely unwrapped himself from the embrace, holding you at arms length, and then winking.

Oh fuck.

From behind, you felt a firm, claiming hand clasp your hip. You’re welcome. You smiled shakily, crossed your arms while Robby spoke privately to Jack, and then he was gone.

“Ready to head home, kid?” Robby asked, returned to your side at last.

“One more drink?” You jutted out your bottom lip, hoping to sway his vote.

“Not tonight, baby, I’ve got plans for us.” You noticed something. It wasn’t prominent enough for anyone else to have noticed, but you were well versed in Michael Robinavitch, and so you couldn’t help but notice the deep set gaze in his eyes. You’d never really seen it before, this side of Robby, but you knew what that kind of hunger looked like, what it felt like, the feral longing in your gut to destroy something, to claw it apart with your fingers so you could figure out what it was all for. You whimpered softly, and it ignited something deep within Robby.

Realising you were both standing in the middle of a bar, panting and eye-fucking each other, Robby linked your fingers with his and led you outside.

He couldn’t keep his fingers to himself in the uber home. Or his mouth. Your driver attempted polite small talk, but immediately gave up when Robby had pulled you into his lap and slotted his lips between yours.

Robby had tipped him handsomely, and smacked your ass on the trek up the driveway to the house.

Items of clothes were removed and thrown carelessly one piece of material at a time, a bra here, a belt there, Robby’s shirt on the stairs, your panties on the doorknob, leaving a breadcrumb trail all the way to your bedroom. XXX marks the spot indeed.

Nothing about this particular encounter could be considered tender, romantic. It was a brutal clash of tongues and teeth, bodies rutting and undulating together while scratching and biting to claim victory and ownership over the other.

You were on your knees, the tip of Robby’s cock bullying the soft palette of your throat, his thick pubic hair tickling your nostrils and invading your senses with the scent of him. Clean skin and sweat and musk and something earthy and sweet that was uniquely him. It made you salivate and slicked his cock even more as he fucked your throat earnestly.

He pulled you off of him, and you inhaled sharply.

“Need— fuck— I need’a piss,” Robby sighed, moving to stand, when you yanked his wrist.

“Daddy…”

“Yeah? What is it, honey?”

“D’you think… never mind…” you looked away, pursing your lips.

“Baby, look at me.” When you ignored him, two thick fingers rested under your chin, and turned your head so you had nowhere to look but at him.

“You want me to piss on you?” His question was sincere, verging on smug, and yet you couldn’t help but bite your lip.

You nod. He raises a curt brow, and then the English language comes back to you. “Yes please, daddy. Want you to piss. Wanna make you feel good.”

He frowns mockingly, although you’re too far gone to realise you’re being played, “I really gotta piss, honey, we can finish as soon as I’m back. Be a good girl and wait thirty seconds for me, okay?”

“No, daddy, wanna do it now, you don’t have to stop, you can just do it in my mouth and then keep going.” Your eyes were wrecked, teary and glazed over as you stared pleadingly up at him.

Robby nods. Nods again, like he’s answering an unasked question.

“In your mouth?”

“Like your own personal urinal.” You smiled.

“Jesus christ, baby. That’s so fuckin’ dirty, you know that?” You didn’t reply, merely grinned and stuck out your tongue, challenging him to make good on his word.

He slapped his tip on your tongue and you moaned filthily. “Been building up to this, huh, honey? Thought you were so smart, askin’ to watch me piss, askin’ to hold my dick while I piss, to piss on you in the shower, while actin’ like these were isolated incidents, like I’d fuckin’ forget what a dirty little girl I’ve got in my bed. Isn’t that right, baby?”

You shook your head, licked the underside of his shaft. Robby laughed, but it was mean. Robby had been lots of things, but never once mean. Not like now.

He pulled his cock out of your mouth and slapped his shaft against your cheek, and then the other one.

“Love this big dick so much you wanna drain it of everything, don’t you?”

“Ye— yes, daddy. Want all of it. Want you, want everything you’ll give me.”

Robby sighs, resolving to his fate.

“Okay, open up little girl.” You look up at him from your position om your knees, big wet eyes trying to gauge whether or not he’s joking.

He guides his thumb to your bottom lip, tracing the lip until you open your mouth slightly, he hooks two fingers inside, prying your jaw open more.

“Gotta keep it open wide for me honey, dont want you to miss a drop.”

You nod dumbly, jaw a little achey from the pressure at which he’s keeping you open, quickly forgetting all about the ache as he slides his fat cock past your lips again, pushing in inch after inch until you can feel his ruddy tip prod at the back of your throat.

You moan at the intrusion, raising your hand from your side and enclosing it around his much larger one, dragging it from where he’s got it resting on his hip until it’s curled in your hair. He tugs once, you groan, the vibrations from your throat reverberating from his tip all the way to his sac, his hips jerk at the sensation and you gag around his cock, eyes shedding stray tears while he coos and tells you how good you are at taking him, his good girl, the best at throat fucking his biiiiig dick, taking every inch just for him. You nod around his dick, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking at the same time, trying to get him to cum.

He seems to remember what you asked of him, and closes his eyes to concentrate.

“You sure you want this, baby?”

“Mhm.”

“Wow, can’t speak with a dick in your mouth and yet here you are, responding so clearly. A+ for you sweetheart.”

You moan at the mocked praise, dragging your clothed cunt against the rug beneath you, trying to get any sort of friction going.

“Shit, ok, fuck, honey, im gonna—- it’s coming— last chance to back out.”

You pull off his dick for a second, “piss in my mouth, daddy, please, want it so bad.”

“Fucking christ.”

Robby pulls you forward by the scruff of your neck just in time to catch the first dribbles of piss from his cock. You stick your tongue out to catch it, your eyes not budging from his gaze as you watch him watch you swallow his piss.

It borders on religion, if he really allows himself to think about it. You, this young, beautiful thing, on your knees, him towering over you, his cock in your mouth. You’re reverent in your undivided attention, supplicant and devoted as you eagerly swallow every drop of piss he allows to pass your lips, moaning wantonly at this act of desecration - a willing follower to a selfish God.

He grows more confident, as dribbles give way to a full stream.

“Fuck, can’t— can’t stop it now, bunny, swallow my fucking piss like a— like a good little slut, yeaaah you like that, don’t you? You like being my good slut, guzzling my piss like a fucking champ, aren’t you?”

There’s so much of it that it spills from your mouth and begins streaming down your chin in thick rivulets, down your chest and glazing your nipples in the piss, pooling below your glistening cunt. It’s filthy, the way you’re playing with your pussy, lubing your hole with his piss, cupping the fluid that’s caught on the towel you put down earlier and dripping it all over your clit, spreading your sticky pussy lips so it all gets soaked in it.

Robby watches you intently, a choked groan accompanies the end of his stream, and you wipe your mouth sloppily, swallowing the last of his spend.

He opens your mouth, inspecting the damage, you suppose. You stick your tongue out, “all gone.”

He smirks, shoves three fingers in at once. You gag at the intrusion, your cunt clenching in kind. He slaps his fingers on your tongue like he would his cock and then removes them from your mouth, wiping the stray saliva on your cheek. You don’t have it in you to feel degraded.

“D’you enjoy that, kid?” You nod dumbly.

“Did you cum?” You shook your head.

“Well thats just too bad, isnt it?” You whine, butting your head into the meaty part of his thigh.

“Make me cum, daddy, please make me cum.” He pulls you off your knees and pushes you in the direction of the shower. Yes, he just pissed inside of you, but he doesn’t want to fuck you like that. His sweet girl, skin tacky from his piss sticking to your skin. He has to maintain some modicum of integrity, right?

——————————————————————————

The second time Robby indulges your… thing, he’s got his cock buried inside you, hips snapping as his tip bullies your cervix. He doesn’t know if you’ve fucking pavlov’d him or something, but he’s starting to notice a pattern where when the two of you fuck, he gets the strongest urge to piss.

“Be right back sweet girl, i just have to pee.”

You frown up at him as he pulls out, and he chuckles softly at the way you can look at him like that with your legs folded over your head like a goddamn trapeze artist.

“Not this again.”

“Yes this again,” your tone is petulant at best. Downright pissed off at worst.

“Sweetheart…” Robby sighs, already aware this is a losing battle and he has zero leverage to placate you.

“Want you to piss in my pussy this time, Robby.” The way you’re grinning at him would be more appropriate if you’d just told him you’d booked an all expenses Caribbean getaway, or you won the lottery and he never had to work again - he definitely would - not that you were asking him to piss in your cunt, like that was an occasion to be celebrated.

“What? No. No! You can get infections from that shit. No way. Pick another kink to grow attached to.”

Some people wore their heart on their sleeves. Robby wore his on his face. You weren’t sure if he knew this about himself, but he was so facially expressive you could read braille off the lines on his forehead if you tried hard enough.

If you were to trace the lines now, you knew you’d get the same answer as you were reading now from the look on his face. Chin quivering slightly, the wrinkles between his brow creased in deep lines, forehead scrunched in a depreciation. He was fucking distraught.

“You’re a doctor, baby, you can just prescribe me an antibiotic, or you can get Jack to if that makes you less uncomfortable. It’ll be fine.” You rubbed his shoulder in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. It probably came off more as condescending.

“Jesus christ, baby, this is insane. Do you hear what you’re asking for?”

“Yes,” you shrugged.

“You— yes? Fuck. Okay. This is the last time, okay?”

“Okay.” Now you’re the one placating him.

“No. Seriously. This is it.” He leans forward so you’re practically forehead to forehead, his eyes staring deeply into yours like he’s communicating the message via prolonged eye contact too. Just in case your ears hadn’t received it.

“Okay, I get it. Get the waterworks going now please,” you huffed.

“I hate you so much.” You roll your eyes at him fondly, so dramatic. He shakes his head but kisses you once for good measure.

He lines himself up, and nudges his cock inside you again. His thrusts are more hesitant this time around, like now that you’ve asked him to piss inside you, he’s reverted to being a virgin again or something. His technique’s sloppy and his hips can’t seem to find their usual rhythm.

He rocks his hips, still hitting all the right angles even if he’s worried about what he’s working himself up to.

“Ok, here it comes, honey,” you exhale deeply as you feel the first remnants of his piss inside your hole, the drizzle before the downpour. He fucks you through it, panting heavily, like this affects him just as much as it affects you.

“I love you so much, dirty fucking girl.” Robby’s gasping and moaning obscenely, the sensation of pissing while fucking you is overwhelming. You’re always so wet and pliant for him, but with his piss actively filling your hole… It’s immense. It feels like he’s fucking one of those tube toys with the holes at both ends while the toy’s being waterboarded. He realises that’s a stupid analogy, and notes to himself to never tell you that.

“hnnng love you daddy,” you cry as he fucks you harder, the piss pouring out of your sloppy cunt onto the floor in puddles.

“Gimme all of it, Robby, please,” you moaned, head thrown back in that way you do right before you cum.

“Fuck, m’almost done. I’m gonna cum sweetheart, think you can cum at the same time?” Robby stares at you so reverently, with so much adoration, you have to close your eyes. You clamp them shut, throw away the key. He shouldn’t look at you like that if he wants you to be a functioning human being anyway.

He taps your face with his palm. Not a slap, just an invitation to rejoin him in the world of the living. With his cock spearing inside your pussy obscenely. You open your eyes, Robby would probably describe you as doe eyed and wobbly. Bambi.

He smiles at you, but it’s this earth shattering thing. It steals all the oxygen from your lungs, burns your throat on the way up.

“Y-yes,” you nod desperately, clammering for Robby’s hand.

“Rub my clit, daddy,” you beg, no longer caring how annoyingly desperate you sound.

He smiles down at you, his good girl, and rubs your clit in tight circles, your hips raise, meeting his thrusts in freakishly wet plaps.

You stick your fingers in Robby’s mouth, catching him off guard, he chokes out a moan, and cums balls deep inside of you, the feeling of his spend at your cervix.

You cum too, it’s a vicious climax, really - your entire body trembling and thrashing while your pussy contracts wildly, pushing waves of Robby’s piss, your cum, and his cum out of you in a clean flush.

Robby collapses beside you, into the puddle.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, your brain presently orbiting outer space.

“Love you, baby,” he admits softly, his splayed hand on your tummy flexing.

“Love you too, Robby.” Your hand rests atop his, index finger tracing the veins.

He’ll get up eventuslly, needs to clean you up thoroughly, get you both showered, and then deal with this floor. And then he has to figure out how to get Jack to prescribe you antibiotics without telling him that he pissed inside of you. God. What have you done to him?

——————————————————————————

Ellis and Shen are bickering.

The night shift’s inexplicably quiet, for no apparent reason. Jack knows not to curse their luck so he doesn’t acknowledge it, they all do.

He finally realises he’s had about enough of listening to them antagonise each other over… who knows what, really. It could be the continuation of their Dunkin’ vs Starbucks argument from a couple weeks ago, or some other iteration of pointless time wasting they love to partake in.

His phone dings.

He excuses himself from the station and checks his phone.

He has one message from one Michael Robinavitch.

Hey, man. Need you to do me a favour

He raises a brow. Colour him fucking interested.

Oh? How can I be of assistance to you on this fine evening, Dr Robinavitch?

I need you to get a prescription for metronidazole. No questions

You dirty bastard, you fuckin’ did it

Don’t.

Hey hey hey, don’t get grumpy with me, I’m playing by the rules here. I’ll get your lady her prescription

Thank you, brother

So, how did it feel when you pissed inside her? I’m curious

Goodnight!

Fucker.

[robinavitchslut]

PISS FIC!! PISS FIC!! PISS FIC!!!!!