Dark Male! Charlotte La Bouff x childhood friend Reader x Slightly Male! Tiana
The night you first told Tiano you'd love him till the river ran backward, except you didn't say it like that, because you were eight years old and what you actually said was:
"I'm gonna marry the best man in all New Orleans."
And Tiano, ten and already too serious for his britches, didn't even look up from the pot he was stirring on his mama's stove, just a little kitchen stool dragged over so he could reach.
"Then you best learn to like waitin'," he stated. "On account of the best cook in New Orleans ain't gonna have time for foolishness."
"It ain't foolishness." You'd stomped your foot. "It's a wish."
"Wishin' on stars." He'd shaken his head, ladling a taste, blowing on it, frowning the way his daddy frowned.
"My daddy says you can wish all you want, but you gotta dig in an' do the work too. Here." And he had held the spoon out across the little kitchen, steam curling up between you.
"Tell me what it needs."
You'd tasted it. Gumbo, thin and over-salted and the best thing your tongue ever met.
"It's perfect," you breathed.
And Tiano had smiled, that rare, slow, hard-won smile that you had spend the rest of your life chasing like a fool chases the morning star.
"Naw," he said. "But it's gettin' there."
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Twenty years didn't change Tiano much. He got taller, got two jobs and dreams of a third, and has a restaurant of his own, a sign with his mama's name on it, a place where the whole world could come sit down and be fed.
What twenty years did change was you, because the went and turned itself into something that kept you up nights.
You only ever told one living soul.
"Tiano?" Charlie La Bouff near about dropped his teacup, while his golden curls bounced، a laugh that could rattle the chandeliers clear across the parish escaped his lips.
"Sugar, you been holdin' out on me! Oh, this is just the most romantic thing I ever heard, and I have heard plenty, on account of I read three romance novels a week!"
"Hush, Charlie, somebody'll hear you." You'd twisted your handkerchief into a knot. "I need a favor. A real one. You're his friend, he trusts you. I want you to put in a good word. Tell him how I feel. I can't get the words out my own mouth, I just go all to pieces."
And for one half of one heartbeat, Charlie La Bouff went quiet for a while.
You should have seen it. Lord, you should have seen it, the way his eyes went cold and thoughtful, the way a card sharp looks at a hand he means to win. But then the sunshine came pouring right back into his face and he clasped both your hands in his.
"Why, of course I will." He squeezed. "You leave it all to Charlie. We are gonna get you your heart's desire, and that is a promise. Cross my heart and hope to wear last season's gloves."
You laughed as you believed him.
That was your first mistake. And surely It was not your last.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Charlie came back two days later with a face full of trouble he was pretending to be sorry about.
"Oh, sugar." He sat you down. He took your hands again Charlie was forever taking your hands. "I talked to him. I did. And I want you to be brave now, you hear?"
Your stomach dropped clean through the floorboards.
"What'd he say?"
"He said..." Charlie sighed, big and theatrical, dabbing at a dry eye. "He said he cares for you. Awful much. As a friend. Said you two been pals since you were knee-high and he just can't see it any other way, and he'd hate to lose you over it." He patted your knee.
"He's married to that kitchen, darlin'. You said so your own self when you were children. Some men just don't have room*."
It was so close to true that it cut clean to the bone. You'd heard Tiano say it, 'the best cook in New Orleans ain't gonna have time for foolishness' and here was the proof, twenty years come due.
"But!" Charlie brightened, snapping his fan open. "I have got just the thing to mend a broken heart, and her name is Naveen."
"Charlie —"
"Princess Naveen of Maldonia! Visitin' for the whole season, and oh, she is a vision, all dark eyes and that accent that goes right through you. My daddy's throwin' a masquerade and you are going, you are gonna speak with her and dance with me, you are gonna forget all about kitchens and good words and feelin' sorry for yourself." He hauled you up by both hands.
"Trust Charlie. Charlie always knows best about love."
"You don't think I oughta just talk to Tiano myself? Just to be sure."
"And humiliate the poor man twice?" Charlie pressed a hand to his chest, scandalized. "After he was so gentle about it? Sugar, no. That's cruel. You wouldn't want to be cruel, would you?"
"...No."
"Course you wouldn't. You've got too good a heart." He smiled. "Now let's go find you a dress."
So you never asked Tiano. Charlie made sure of it, at every supper, every dance, every time you so much as drifted toward the kitchen door, there was Charlie, pink and persistent, hooking your arm and steering you off toward him.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Princess Naveen was everything Charlie promised and the worst luck you ever had, because she was wonderful, and that made it impossible to hate her.
She swept into New Orleans on a cloud of trouble, there was a story there, something about a spell and a swamp and a kiss that went sideways, too strange to repeat in polite company, and by the end of it all, she had hung her whole golden heart on a working man with flour on his apron.
"You know what I like about him?" she'd told the whole party at the wedding, lazy and radiant, lifting her glass toward Tiano.
"He does not want anything from me. Everybody wants something from a princess. Tiano, he just wants to feed people. To build the thing he dreamed. I have done many foolish things in my life," and her voice had gone soft, "But loving this man is the only one I would do again, and again, a thousand times again."
And Tiano, your Tiano, had looked at her like she was the last star left in the sky.
You stood in the back of the church in the dress you had sewn yourself, and you clapped till your hands stung, while you smiled so hard your face ached, and not one living soul knew that you were dying.
Charlie found you afterward, by the punch bowl. He pressed a glass into your hand.
"Don't you fret now, sugar," he murmured, and there was something almost tender in it. "Some folks just aren't meant for each other. But you've always got me."
You told yourself that was kindness.
It wasn't.
It was just a down payment.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Grief is patient. And so was Charlie.
He was there with flowers and that big laugh that filled a room so full there wasn't space left over for sorrow. His daddy, Big Daddy La Bouff, wept happy tears.
The whole city threw a party that lasted three days. You wore white and told yourself this was a fine kind of love, a comfortable kind, the kind a sensible person ought to be grateful for.
"You won't regret it!" Big Daddy had sobbed, hugging you till your ribs creaked. "Charlie's been sweet on you years. Years! Couldn't make that boy so much as glance at another soul!"
Indeed, Charlie was a wonderful husband for two whole years.
He had brought you many gifts, expensive jewelry, fine dresses, and even handmade crafts bearing both your names, fashioned for memory.
Never once had you felt bored in his company, for he was a boundless thing, restless and bright with energy.
But, at the same time, you had not noticed the ugly glares he cast at any man who drew too close, nor how he would humiliate those same men before a crowd, dragging their pasts into the open air like weapons.
At least he had never struck you, never treated you the way most men treated their wives in that era.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Yet Charlie's lies, unfortunately for him, didn't last.
You learned it on an ordinary Tuesday, at Tiano's Palace, the restaurant Tiano finally built, named for a fool nickname Naveen had given him that he'd never had the heart to scrape off the sign.
You'd come to fetch Charlie, who was holding court at the best table. Tiano caught your elbow by the kitchen door, wiping his hands on his apron, that old, old gesture, and your fool heart did its old, old thing.
"Can I ask you somethin'?" His brow was furrowed. "Been eatin' at me a long while. Years, if I'm honest, an' I don't say things twice so listen good." He lowered his voice.
"Back before the princess. Before any of it. You an' me, we were close as anything. An' then one day Charlie come to me, said you'd told him plain you only saw me as a friend. That I oughta quit moonin' an' leave you be." His eyes look into yours.
"Was that true? You ever say that?"
"He told you what?" Your voice cracked in shock.
"Tiano...I went to Charlie. I asked him to match us. To tell you how I felt, 'cause I couldn't get the words out myself. He came back an' said you didn't want me. As a friend, he said. Just a friend."
"He told me you wanted nothin' to do with me," you exclaimed. "And he told you I only wanted a friend. Same lie, just turned 'round backward, so we'd never go lookin' at each other again."
"Aw, hell," Tiano said softly, as he pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. "He's the one steered me at Naveen. Told me she is my true love, and assured me I'd be a fool to say no." A bitter breath left the young man.
"An' I believed him. Figured you'd already turned me down, so what was the harm? I named my whole restaurant off a joke that woman made, 'cause I couldn't stand to name it the thing I wanted to."
You couldn't breathe. "Which was?"
Tiano didn't answer, because he didn't have to. He just looked at you twenty years of it sitting in his eyes, and that was answer enough to break a body in two.
"He did it on purpose," you said, and the fury came up your spine like floodwater. "I handed him my whole heart an' asked him to carry it 'cross the room, an' he threw it in the river. Then he stood there two more years catchin' the pieces."
"Then I reckon," Tiano said, low and steady and principled as bedrock, "you got somethin' to say to your husband."
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
You came home to be met with the sight of your husband peeling an orange in the big parlor, humming to himself like a man without one care in all the world.
"You ruined it," You snapped "I asked you to match me with Tiano. I trusted you with the realest thing I ever felt. An' you went an' told him I only wanted a friend, an' you told me he said the same, then you shoved him at Naveen so there'd be no chance left at all. You did it all. From the very first day."
Charlie did not look up from his orange.
"Mm," he said. "Took you long enough, sugar."
The whole room dropped cold.
"I want a divorce, Charlie."
He finally looked at you.
And the strangest thing happened to his face. The sunshine drained right out of it, not into anger, that would've been a mercy. But into something worse.
"Now, sugar." He set the silver knife down with a soft little click sound. "You don't mean that. You're upset, an' that's all right, I forgive you. Lord knows I've had practice." He rose, unhurried, and crossed the floor.
"You wanna know the funny thing? You came to me. You did. Walked right up an' asked me to hand you over to another man. An' I thought, well, now. Why would I go an' do a foolish thing like that?"
"Perhaps because I asked you to do so!"
"You asked me to give you away!" The laugh came, but cold now, nothing like the chandelier-rattler you'd loved.
"An' I am not in the habit of givin' away things I want, sugar. Never have been. Ask my daddy. I see a thing I like, I get it, an' I do not share."
"You stole my whole life."
"I cleared the table for myself!" He spread his hands, elegant, reasonable, monstrous in his reasonableness.
"Tiano would've made you second to a soup pot, I just made sure he never came knockin', an' I steered him off at that princess so he'd be good an' married to clean out the way."
He took your face in both hands, gentle as anything, and you felt the gentleness for the cage it was.
"An' I would do every lick of it again. Twice."
"Let go of me."
"You're not listenin'." Soft and smiling as his thumb tracing your cheek, his eyes not blinking once.
"There ain't a lawyer in this parish my daddy don't own. There ain't a door in all New Orleans I won't have locked 'fore you reach it. You go on an' ask me for your divorce, sugar. Ask me a hundred times. I will smile, an' I will say no," He leaned in close, and the whisper that came out was the truest thing he'd said in years.
"I waited half my life to have you to myself. You really think I'd let a little thing like the truth take you off me now?"
At that moment you remember what he said to you, after the wedding.
'You wished on a star,' Charlie had reminded you on your wedding night, 'and look, here I am.'
It made you realise that the moment Charlie eavesdropped on you both, is the moment that sealed your fate.
I’m not sure if you’re taking requests rn but i have an idea i hope you like! (btw i absolutely loved Mrs Kennedy it was perfection.)
I was thinking how at the very end of the game where leon and grace get saved by The hound wolf squad.
We obviously know when leon removes his glove he places a ring back onto his finger.
The whole idea is that Reader (Leon’s wife ofc ofc) shows up there as well and is idk apart of whatever field (your pick) Now ofc the people around reader know to be serious when on the job.
Anyway the whole point is Reader walks up to Leon and grace, the reader is basically acting tough and seeming professional (Deep inside though they were literally terrified of losing leon)
But then they both move over to the sidelines alone and then ofc the tough personality drops and immediately starts checking him for any injuries etc.
I hope you like the idea and sorry if it wasn’t clear enough i don’t usually request things often 💖
You still married me.
Leon Kennedy x wife!reader (3.3kwords)
A/N: babe wake up. I got a request. THANK YOU ANON FOR THIS I LOVE REQUESTS. I also love wife, Kennedy; she’s a baddie, let’s be real. This was so fun to write! I genuinely think this one is adorable.
Warnings: a tad bit of angst (wifey thinks he’s hurt, okay)
Summary: Chris’s team found Leon and the missing FBI agent he went looking for, so when you get the call that they’re alright. Nothing's stopping you from seeing for yourself.
The moment you heard the update crackle through the team’s radio, you were already moving, grabbing your medical pack and heading straight for the nearest emergency truck before anyone had the chance to call your name.
“We got em’.”
That was all it took.
Your feet hit the pavement faster than they had all night as you hauled yourself into the passenger seat, barely waiting for the rest of your team to pile behind you. You weren't far from the extraction site, already staged just outside the search perimeter in the desperate hope that they’d be found somewhere—anywhere. Since Leon had gone off-grid after heading into raccoon city, you’d been pacing the breakroom like a ghost, chewing at your nails, trying to ignore the way every minute stretched longer than the last.
The trauma response breakroom wasn't much: a shared space, old tile floors, a coffee bar that barely worked half the time, a couple of cots shoved against the wall for whatever sleep you could steal between calls, and a table in the center that usually saw more card games than paperwork on slower nights.
Tonight had not been one of them.
Being DSO trauma meant things were always moving, always going wrong, and always urgent, but it had never been him. Leon had always handled himself, always come back, and always made it look easier than it probably was. Still did. But these last eighteen hours had carved something sharp into your chest, something you hadn’t felt this deeply since the day you married him.
The truck was packed tight, your team crammed shoulder to shoulder, each carrying basic kits while the heavier equipment rattled behind you. Hound Wolf squad had already called in full trauma for other areas of the estate, redirecting units to where they were needed.
You hadn’t moved. You weren’t letting them pull you from Chris’s team.
Not when they were the ones who had pulled your husband out of whatever hell he'd been buried in.
Your grip tightened around the rail near the window as the truck sped forward, your stomach rolling hard enough to make you think you might lose it if you let yourself breathe wrong. Your face, however, stayed neutral and controlled, exactly what they expected from you.
To everyone else you were steady. Focused. Professional.
Or else they wouldn't let you tag along to work on Leon, and the only thing keeping you upright right now was the fact that he was alive.
When the truck skidded into the muddy clearing just outside the site, the world looked like it had been left to rot. Wet earth, broken ground, and the air thick with something that clung to the back of your throat.
The chaos hadn’t settled—it had just shifted.
Sirens cut through the air, red lights flashing across cracked pavement as medics moved quickly through the scene, voices overlapping in sharp, practiced commands. The threat was gone, but the aftermath lingered heavy in the air, clinging to everything it touched.
You stepped out with the rest of the team, already moving before anyone could direct you, your expression set, your posture straight, every inch of you falling into the role you’d trained for as your eyes scanned the area.
Then you saw him.
Leon stood near the back of an ambulance, shoulders slumped, the weight of everything he’d just been through written plainly in the way he held himself. The missing FBI agent Grace sat nearby on the edge of the vehicle, a blanket wrapped tightly around her as she spoke to him, her face pale and shaken, just as much a part of the aftermath as he was.
You registered it. Then let it go.
Because your focus had already locked onto him, pulling tighter with every step you took, the world narrowing until it was just that one point, just him, standing there, breathing, alive in a way that didn’t quite feel real yet. Your gaze caught on the axe strapped to his belt, dark with someone else's or something else's blood, the metal dulled by it, not even wiped clean yet.
If you didn’t keep your shit together, they’d pull you off the field, and that wasn’t an option, not now, not when he was right there. The urge to break formation and run to him hit hard enough to make your chest tighten, but you forced your pace to stay measured, even as your grip tightened around the handle of your medical bag.
It wasn’t Leon who noticed you first. It was Grace.
Her eyes landed on you as you approached, soft but alert, taking you in like she was trying to place you. She didn’t know who you were, but everyone knew her. Knew she’d been missing. Knew what it meant that she was sitting here now, alive.
“Agent Kennedy,” you said, voice level and professional, like this was just another routine assessment, like your pulse hadn't been racing for the last eighteen hours.
His head lifted at the sound of your voice, his attention following Grace’'s line of sight until it landed on you.
And for a second—just a second—something in his expression shifted.
Recognition. Relief.
The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his mouth before it disappeared just as quickly, tucked neatly behind the same guarded composure he wore for everyone else.
“You’re late,” he muttered, dry as ever.
It almost made you smile.
Almost.
Instead, your gaze moved over him, clinical and precise, cataloging everything without letting yourself linger. Blood. Some his, some not. Dirt, and the remnants of something far worse than either.
“Status?” you asked, already stepping closer.
“Still breathing,” he said.
Of course he was.
You nodded once, sharply. “Good. Stay that way.”
“I—I'm Grace."
You peeled your attention away from him to look at her, huddled inside the back of the ambulance, the blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. Up close, she looked worse. Shaken and exhausted. Trying to hold herself together in a way that felt all too familiar.
Your expression softened just slightly. “Hi grace,” you said, stepping closer as you set your bag down beside her. “Have you been checked yet?”
She hesitated, her eyes flicking back to Leon like she was looking for reassurance, and you followed that instinctually, catching the way he gave her a small, steady nod. The same quiet reassurance you’d seen him give a hundred times before.
The movement passed quickly as she looked back at you. “Yes, ma’am.”
You gave her one last reassuring nod, adjusting the blanket more securely around her shoulders, your hands steady even if everything else in you wasn’t. As you did, your gaze flicked up briefly and caught him watching.
Leon didn’t say anything. He never did in moments like this. He just stood there, quiet, letting you do your job, like he trusted you with it without question. Like he always did.
You only held his gaze for a second before pulling your attention back to Grace, your hands moving automatically, checking what has already been done, making sure nothing had been missed. Yet your mind didn't stay where your hands were. It never did when it came to him.
Because even now, standing there like nothing had happened, you could see it. The way he held himself just a little too still. The exhaustion he tried to tuck away. The way he stayed close enough to Grace without hovering, like he needed to make sure she would be fine. Safe. of course he did; that’s who he was. The man stepped in front of things no one else would touch. The one who carried people out when it would’ve been easier not to. The one who gave everything he had, again and again and again, without ever stopping to ask what it cost him.
Your fingers adjusted the edge of the blanket again, smoothing it down like you had something to fix, something to focus on.
Grace. A girl he didn’t know, a mission too risky. Still... He stayed. You didn’t need details to know what had happened in here. You didn't need a report or a debrief to understand the look in her eyes when she glanced at him or the way he hadn’t moved far from her side since you arrived.
He’d protected her, like he always did. Like he had for so many people before her.
Like he would again.
Your jaw tightened slightly as you kept your attention where it needed to be, your movements controlled and practiced, and your voice calm as you spoke to Grace, but the thought settled anyways, heavy and familiar in your chest.
If it had been you… he woudlve done the same. Without hesitation. Without question. Given everything.
Always.
You slipped into autopilot with Grace, telling her to stay put, that someone would be with her shortly, your voice steady even as your attention had already shifted. You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye when Leon pulled his glove free, flexing his fingers slightly. His hand looked…normal. No dark veins, no sign of the infection that had been eating at him. Just skin. Just him. Then he slid the ring back into place, settling it over his finger like it had never left.
His wedding ring.
It caught for a second, something tight pulling in your chest as it settled there like it belonged. Like he needed it there, even now.
Grace said something, but you barely registered it, already turning, already shifting your stance just enough to move.
“Will you give us a minute?”
You offered her a soft smile, the same calm, reassuring expression you’d been holding onto since you arrived, even as your hand closed around Leon's arm, guiding—no, pushing—him gently away. Grace nodded, her eyes flicking between the two of you, something curious there but no questions.
You didn’t stop walking until you reached your truck, the tailgate still folded down, equipment scattered where it had been hastily pulled out. You maneuvered him in front of it and gave him a small push to his shoulder, just enough to get him sitting on the edge before you dropped your bag beside him. You glanced around once, quickly, making sure no one was paying too close attention.
Then you broke.
Your hands were on him instantly, firm and urgent, moving over his shoulders, his arms, and his ribs, checking, searching, needing something solid to tell you this was real.
“Where are you hurt?" You demanded, your voice low but tight, the control slipping at the edges.
Leon caught your wrist, not stopping you, just slowing you, grounding you. “I’m okay.”
“No,” you snapped, your eyes snapping up to his, something sharp and raw cutting straight through what little composure you had left. “You don’t get to say that to me.”
Your hands didn’t slow, pressing more deliberately now, searching for any sign of damage, any flinch, anything out of place. Your fingers brushed along his side and lingered.
He flinched.
“Damn it kennedy.”
You were tugging his shirt up before he could protest, your movements sharper now, more frantic as you tried to get a better look, and your heart climbed into your throat.
"Hey—" he started, trying to catch your hands again, but you didn’t stop.
“Ah,” he huffed, half a breath, half a protest, as he tried again, softer this time. “I said i’m fine, hon.”
If anything, your hands moved with more purpose, tugging his shirt higher despite the way he tried to catch your wrists, your fingers pressing along his side again like you were trying to force the truth out of him through touch alone. “That wasn’t a suggestion,” you muttered, already scanning for anything out of place, your voice tight. “You flinched.”
Leon let out a quiet breath through his nose, something caught between a sigh and a tired laugh, as his hand came up to steady your wrist again, not stopping you so much as trying to slow you down. “Yeah,” he said, dry even now, "because you’re digging into it like you’re trying to make it worse.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop lying to me.”
That made him pause, just for a second, the smallest break in that usual deflection of his before he shifted, his grip loosening as he reached down himself and hooked his fingers into the hem of his shirt. He lifted it just enough for you to see, not making a show of it, just giving you what you’d been looking for all along. “Already handled,” he said, quieter this time, the edge gone from his voice.
Your eyes dropped immediately, locking onto the clean wrap around his side, the bandaging tight and deliberate, already doing its job. It wasn’t fresh, and it wasn’t ignored. Someone had taken care of it, or he had. Either way, it wasn’t what your mind had been bracing for.
Your hands were still for a moment before settling back in, slower now, more careful as your fingers brushed along the edge of the bandage, checking the placement, the pressure and the heat of his skin beneath it.
“Who did it?” you asked, your voice softer without you meaning it to be.
“Field kit,” he answered easily. “Had help.”
Of course he did.
Of course he managed.
Your thumb traced along the wrap again, this time not searching, just confirming, your movements losing that frantic edge as your shoulders slowly started to come down from where they’d been sitting since you got the call.
“You could’ve started with that," you murmured, the words slipping out more to yourself than to him.
Leon watched as you said it, really watched you this time, the way your hands had changed, the way your breathing hadn't quite settled yet, and the way something was still holding tight beneath the surface even after you’d found what you needed to.
That was the moment it shifted.
His hand came up again, not to stop you this time but to guide you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist as he eased your hands away from his side and back toward him. "Hey," he said, quieter now, waiting until you looked at him, until your eyes finally met his instead of the injury.
“I’m okay.”
No deflecting or brushing it off.
Just steady. Serious.
Your jaw tightened like you wanted to argue anyways, like you weren’t ready to let it go that easily, but the fight had already started to slip from your grip.
“I thought—” you started, then stopped yourself, shaking your head slightly as your gaze dropped for a second.
Leon didn't let it stay there.
His hand shifted from your wrist to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he tipped your face back up toward him, grounding you in the same way you’d just tried to ground him. “You don’t get to go there,” he said quietly, his voice softer than it had been since you walked up to him. “Not when im sitting right in front of you.”
Your breath caught, just enough for him to notice.
His hand lingered there for a moment before sliding back to the nape of your neck, pulling you just a little closer, not enough to draw attention, just enough that you could feel him, solid and real and right where he was supposed to be. “I told you,” he added, the faintest hint of that familiar tone slipping back in, “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
Your lips pressed together, something between a breath and a laugh threatening to break through as you shook your head, your hands finally settling against his chest again. Not searching this time, just resting there.
“You’re an idiot,” you muttered, the tension in your voice loosening just enough to let it sound like you again.
Leon huffed quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting as his hand covered yours where it rested against him, holding it there for a second longer than necessary. “Yeah,” he said, softer now, “and you still married me.”
And just like that, the edge of it all dulled, not gone, not really—but easier to carry.
Leon’s thumb was still brushing slow, absent circles over the back of your hand where it rested against his chest, the two of you standing just close enough to forget, for a second, that you weren’t alone.
Your breathing had finally started to even out, the panic ebbing into something quieter, something steadier, and in its place was him, solid, warm, and alive under your touch. Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, like you needed to feel the fabric shift just to remind yourself he was real.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
It was subtle. Quick.
But you caught it, and just like that, the air shifted again.
Your hand slid a fraction higher against his chest, your thumb brushing along the line of his collar as your eyes lifted back to his, something softer settling there now, something that had nothing to do with triage or protocol or the dozen people moving around you.
“Still think I’m late?” you murmured, quieter now, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.
Leon’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, his hand tightening slightly at the back of your neck as he leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping with you. “Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking between yours and then your lips again. “Could’ve been here sooner.”
“You’re alive,” you whispered back, like that alone should settle it.
“It’s a start.”
The space between you closed without either of you really deciding to do it, instinct pulling tighter than reason, your forehead nearly brushing his, his nose just barely grazing yours. His hand slid a little firmer at your neck, your fingers tightening in his shirt as the world around you blurred into noise you didn’t care about.
It wasn’t a kiss.
Not yet.
Just close enough to feel his breath, warm against your lips, just close enough that if either of you moved—
“Alright, Romeo.”
And there it was.
Leon’s eyes shut for half a second, his forehead dropping lightly against yours in a quiet, of course, before he pulled back just enough to glance over your shoulder.
You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.
But you did anyway.
Chris stood a few feet back, arms crossed over his chest, looking entirely too amused for a man who’d just come out of hell himself. One of the Hound Wolf guys behind him muttered something under his breath, earning a low chuckle from someone else as they tried and failed to pretend they weren’t watching.
“Didn’t realize we were running a reunion special out here,” Chris added, brow lifting slightly as his gaze flicked between the two of you.
Your hand dropped from Leon’s chest immediately, professionalism snapping back into place like it had never slipped, even if the warmth was still lingering in your cheeks. “He’s cleared for transport,” you said smoothly, like you hadn’t just been half a breath away from kissing your husband in the middle of an active scene.
Leon snorted quietly beside you, dragging a hand down the back of his neck as he stood a little straighter, composure sliding back into place just as easily. “You always this nosy, Redfield?” he shot back.
Chris didn’t miss a beat. “Only when it’s entertaining.”
There was a pause, then, just long enough for the tension to settle into something lighter, something almost normal despite everything around you.
Leon glanced at you again, just for a second.
Quick. Quiet.
But it was there.
That same softness.
Like the moment hadn’t actually been interrupted…just…delayed.
And something told you he’d finish it later.
Guys I just fucking realized grace is in a god damn helicopter not an ambulance why didn’t none of y’all mfs say something 💀💀
Pairing - Carlisle x mate vampire reader you and Carlisle have been paired for centuries, giving Bella just a peak of your love for each other
The first time you heard the name Carlisle Cullen, it was little more than a whisper carried through the slow, secretive channels vampires used to spread unusual news. You had existed for centuries already, turned sometime in 1570s in a world that still burned people for witchcraft and whispered about monsters lurking in forests. You had survived by instinct and restraint when you could manage it, but restraint had always been a fragile thing for your kind.
So when you heard rumors of a vampire who refused human blood, who lived only on animals, you were certain it was nonsense. A fantasy. A story told by desperate creatures trying to believe they could be something better than what they were.
Still, curiosity had always been one of your greatest flaws.
It took you years to track him down. The world was slower then, information traveled by rumor and chance encounters. But eventually your search led you to England, where the quiet doctor moved like a ghost among humans, gentle and careful, leaving no trace of what he truly was.
The night you finally saw Carlisle, you almost didn’t believe it.
He stood alone in a clearing just beyond a small village, moonlight spilling across his pale hair as he finished feeding from a deer. When he noticed you, he didn’t attack. Didn’t bare his teeth.
He simply stepped back, giving you space.
“You’ve been following me,” he said calmly, his voice carrying the soft accent of centuries past. You tilted your head, studying him with open curiosity. “You’re the one drinking animal blood.”
His golden eyes flickered with surprise that you knew. “Yes.” You had expected arrogance. Or madness, instead, he looked… hopeful.
Something strange stirred inside your chest the moment your eyes met. A pull, deep and unexplainable. Like something ancient recognizing its other half after centuries of wandering.
You felt it instantly and judging by the stunned look that crossed Carlisle’s face, he felt it too.
You laughed softly, disbelief coloring your voice.
“Well,” you murmured, stepping closer, “that explains the strange feeling.” Carlisle blinked. “You feel it as well?”
You nodded once. “Seems we’re something rather rare,” you said quietly. “Mates.” The word lingered between you like a vow neither of you had expected.
Three hundred years later, the feeling had never faded, if anything, it had only grown stronger.
When Bella Swan first arrived in Forks, she noticed it almost immediately. She had already been overwhelmed by meeting the rest of the Cullen family, Edward Cullen, Esme Cullen, and the others, but there was something quietly different about the way you and Carlisle interacted.
It wasn’t obvious at first, just small things.
The way Carlisle’s hand would naturally find yours when you stood near each other. The soft smiles that passed between you across the room. The way you seemed to gravitate toward one another without even thinking.
Bella noticed it most one evening while visiting the Cullen house.
She had been sitting on the couch nervously, watching the strange but warm dynamics of the vampire family around her. Edward sat beside her, explaining something quietly, when her eyes drifted toward the kitchen.
You stood at the counter, flipping through a medical journal Carlisle had left open. A small, amused smile tugged at your lips, a moment later Carlisle entered the room. His eyes found you instantly and his entire expression softened, not dramatically. Anyone else might have missed it, but Bella saw.
He walked over quietly, resting one hand at the small of your back in a gesture so natural it seemed like second nature.
“What did you find?” he asked gently. You hummed, pointing at the page. “Your colleague’s theory here is flawed.”
Carlisle leaned closer to read, your shoulders brushing, for a moment neither of you spoke, just standing with eachother.
Then he chuckled softly. “You’re right,” he admitted. Bella stared at the scene unfolding Infront of her.
Three hundred years, Edward had told her earlier. You and Carlisle had been together for three hundred years.
And yet the way he looked at you…
It wasn’t tired.
It wasn’t routine.
It was the same look Bella had seen people give each other during the first days of falling in love.
Warm. Devoted. Completely certain.
Later, Bella found herself whispering to Edward, eyes still drifting toward the two of you across the room.
“They’ve been together for centuries, right?” Edward nodded in agreement. “Yes. three give or take a few."
Bella watched as Carlisle brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, the movement so gentle it almost felt sacred. Her lips parted slightly in amazement. “They still look…” she struggled for the word.
Edward smiled knowingly.
“Hopelessly in love?”
Bella nodded slowly.
Across the room, you laughed softly at something Carlisle said, the sound light and warm. He looked at you the way someone might look at the sun after a long winter, like something he would never take for granted.
Edward leaned back against the couch.
“That’s what happens,” he said quietly, “when you find the person meant for you.”
Bella watched the two of you a moment longer.
Three hundred years.
And somehow the love between you and Carlisle still looked brand new.
ser duncan the tall x wife!female reader / smut / domestic dunk / rainstorm / intimacy/ i went absolutely feral when i wrote this so please be mindful of that
word count: 9.2 k 🗡️❤️🔥
POV: Your husband is seven feet of good to the core, and you're the only one who knows how to make his pulse thunder.
A rainy afternoon, a simmering hearth, and a man who would walk through the seven hells just to hear you whisper his name. He thinks he's just a hedge knight with nothing to his name. You’re about to show him he’s a king in your bed.
Author’s Note: i’ll be the first to admit i went feral writing this, but i’m a romantic at heart, i promise. to me, this is just really, really intimate, you’ll see. ♡
p.s. i had to repost it because tumblr index system sent the first one beyond the Wall. sorry guys, i love you ♡♡♡
You wake to the sound of rain hammering against the cottage's thatched roof, a steady, persistent drumming that has merged with your dreams. The air is cool and carries the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of an approaching storm.
Your fingers curl into the linens, and they are saturated with him; that clean, honest smell of sweat, leather, and the soap he makes himself from wood ash and lavender.
He isn't there. The space beside you is empty, the sheets already cool.
With a groan, you push yourself up. The light filtering through the single window is the soft, pearlescent grey of a day swallowed by clouds. A crack of thunder rattles the windowpane, making you flinch. You've slept past midday, the deep, dreamless sleep of someone who feels safe. Protected.
You can hear him. Not in the cottage with you, but outside. The rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood, punctuated by another distant rumble of thunder. Each swing is a testament to the man you married, the power of him. Another sound follows, a softer one, the scrape of a whetstone along steel.
You pull on a simple woolen dress, the fabric rough against your skin. You don't bother with shoes, your bare feet silent on the floor as you make your way to the door. The cottage is small, but it is yours. It is his. A pot of something hearty and meaty, likely rabbit he snared yesterday, is simmering over the dying embers of the hearth.
Your body tingles with the ghost of last night's touch. A deep, pleasant ache settles between your thighs, a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed you. Your cheeks flush with heat, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wool of your dress. Butterflies, frantic and wild, beat against your ribs. You already miss him, the solid weight of him, the way his large hands, so adept at violence, could map every inch of your body with such tender reverence.
Your Dunk. Your kind, good man, who had seen you stir restlessly in the predawn darkness and had slipped from your bed to let you sleep, taking his toil out into the rain. Good to the very core.
You pull open the heavy oak door. The world explodes in a rush of wind and water. The rain is a solid, silver curtain, and the wind whips it against your face. And there he is.
Duncan.
He stands in the center of the muddy yard, a giant of a man framed by the grey fury of the storm. He's shirtless, his feet planted in the churned mud. The splitting axe, heavy enough that most men would struggle to lift, rests easily on one broad shoulder. His skin is slick with rain, each drop a shimmering jewel as it catches what little light there is.
They trace paths through the dark hair on his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, following the powerful landscape of his body. The muscles of his back and shoulders are bunching and releasing as he turns toward the sound of the door.
When he sees you, he stops. The world seems to hold its breath. The rain continues to fall, the thunder to grumble in the distance, but in that moment, there is only him.
Your eyes catch a flicker of movement near the stables. Chestnut and Thunder, your two beautiful horses, stand sheltered in the overhang, their coats gleaming in the dim light. They are safe, cared for. Just like you.
And then you are moving. There is no thought, only need.
You launch yourself from the doorway, your bare feet slapping against the wet, packed earth, then sinking into the mud. You don't care. You are running towards him, towards your hot, wet man, your husband. You need him with a desperation that eclipses all reason, a need as vital as the air in your lungs.
He's frozen for a heartbeat, a statue of a pagan god in a downpour, and then he's moving too. He drops the axe. It lands with a dull thud in the mud. He takes two long strides to meet you, his powerful legs eating up the distance.
He catches you.
His arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off your feet. The impact is a shock of wet skin against the thin wool of your dress. You gasp, your arms flying around his neck, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. He smells of rain and sweat and him, and you inhale deeply, greedily, filling your lungs with him.
"You'll catch your death, my love," he rumbles, his voice low. His hands are splayed wide against your back, holding you, and despite the strength in them, his touch is impossibly gentle.
You don't answer with words. You pull back just enough to see his face, to see the way the rain has plastered his hair to his forehead, tracing the strong line of his jaw. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, are alight with a joy so fierce it takes your breath away.
He thinks you're mad. You can see it in the twitch of his lips, the fond exasperation in his gaze. But you don't care.
You surge forward and crash your lips against his.
His lips are cold at first, then warm against yours, and they feel like coming home, like the sun breaking through the clouds. He makes a sound, a low groan of surprise and pleasure that is swallowed by the storm.
He tries to speak, his lips moving against yours. "Seven hells, woman," he mumbles, the words lost in the deluge. "Wha—"
But you silence him with another kiss, deep and wet, pouring every ounce of your longing into it. Your hands knot in his wet hair, holding him to you, and you moan into his mouth, a soft, needy sound that is almost stolen away by the wind.
One of his huge hands slides down your back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and comes to rest on your arse. He grips you, possessive and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through your soaked dress. You press yourself against him, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the proof of his desire pressing hot against you.
He grunts into your mouth, a raw, animal sound, when you suck on his tongue. It's a filthy kiss, the kind of kiss that would make a whore in a King's Landing tavern blush.
You pull back, gasping for breath, your chest heaving. A thin, delicate string of saliva connects your mouths for a moment before the rain washes it away. Your eyes are locked on his.
"Need you, Dunk," you whisper, your voice hoarse, almost broken with the force of your want. "Need you now."
The dress is a second, sodden skin, clinging to every curve, every dip. The dark wool is rendered translucent by the downpour, leaving little to the imagination. The hardened points of your nipples press against the fabric. The generous swell of your hips and the soft roundness of your thighs are outlined in perfect detail.
His eyes rove over you, a hungry, worshipful gaze that makes your skin feel too tight. He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working.
"This is madness," he rasps, his voice strained. "You'll be sick, my love."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He shifts you in his arms, one arm banded around your waist, and starts moving towards the stables. He half-carries, half-drags you through the mud, his long strides covering the ground in an instant. The shelter of the stable overhang is a welcome relief from the onslaught of the rain, though the air is still thick with the smell of wet hay, horse, and him.
He sets you down, but doesn't let go. He keeps you pressed against him, framing your face with his hands. "My love," he starts, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and desire. "Look at you, shivering. We need to get you inside, by the fire, get these wet things off you—"
"Mmm-need you, Dunk," you interrupt, your hands coming up to cover his where they cradle your face. You turn your head and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his palm. "I need my husband right now. Not the knight. Not the hedge knight. Just you."
He looks at you then, and the concern in his eyes is slowly consumed by a fire that makes your breath catch. He sees the need in you, that want that mirrors his own. He sees that this is not a whim, but a necessity.
"Dunk, please," you whisper, and it's a broken, beautiful sound. "Please."
"Seven hells," he breathes, the last of his restraint crumbling to dust. "You'll be the death of me."
His hands move from your face, one tangling in your wet hair, the other fumbling with the ties of your dress at your shoulder.
"I saw you," you pant against his skin as his clumsy fingers work at the wet knot. "I saw you standing there... your axe... the rain... gods be good, Dunk, I am burning up for you."
You lean in, your lips tracing the wet, hard curve of his bicep. The muscle tenses under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along its length, tasting rain and salt and man. Then you bite him, gently at first, then harder, sinking your teeth into the firm flesh. You leave a dark, wet mark, a claim. You do it again, lower down, marking him.
A ragged groan tears from his chest. His hands still on your dress, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder. His entire body is trembling against yours.
"Stop," he begs, but it sounds nothing like a command. It's a prayer. "Gods, my love, stop. I can... I can hardly hold myself." He turns his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of your ear. His breath is hot. "I'll take you right here against the wall, with the horses watching, and I'll not care for aught else. I'll be rough. I'll hurt you."
His confession hangs in the damp air between you. He's not threatening you. He's warning you, pleading with you. And you have never been more aroused in your entire life.
"Then take me," you whisper back, your voice a silken thread of challenge. "Take your wife, Ser Duncan."
The title, the honorific he so rarely uses for himself, is the final push. He growls, a low, feral sound from deep in his chest, and finally rips the ties of your dress. The flimsy wool gives way, and he pushes it down over your shoulders.
The sudden cold of the air makes your nipples tighten into hard, aching points. His eyes devour you, tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. He looks at you like you're a miracle, a goddess made flesh, and the awe in his face makes your knees weak.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, as if to himself.
You lunge for him again, your lips finding his with a desperate hunger. You press your naked body against the hard, wet wall of his chest, grinding yourself against him, seeking friction, seeking relief. The coarse hair on his chest abrades your sensitive nipples, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.
"Can't get enough of you," you gasp against his lips between frantic kisses. "Dunk, I can't... I need..."
This time, he meets your need with a ferocity of his own. He kisses you back, not just receiving your passion but returning it, matching it. His tongue plunges into your mouth, claiming it, stroking against yours in a rhythm that promises a deeper, more intimate claiming to come. One of his massive hands cups the back of your head, holding you in place while the other roams down your spine, over the curve of your arse, pulling you against him. His arousal is a hard, thick line against your belly, and the knowledge that you have this effect on him, this shy, good man, is a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac.
"Gods, me neither," he groans, the words a vibration against your lips. "Woke up this morning and you were still asleep... all soft and warm... all mine. Nearly broke my resolve to let you be."
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, a rare, breathtaking sight. It transforms him from a simple hedge knight into a man of breathtaking beauty. "No more of this," he rumbles, his voice a low growl. "You're not getting fucked against a wall like a tavern whore."
He hooks one arm behind your knees and another around your back, and with a grunt, he lifts you into his arms. You yelp, a half-scream, half-laugh of pure delight, as he turns and starts running.
"Dunk! Dunk, what are you doing!" you shriek, clinging to his neck as he barrels back out into the torrential rain.
"I'm taking my wife to our bed!" he roars back, his laughter booming over the storm.
He moves with an impossible speed, a charging beast carrying its most precious treasure. Mud splashes, the world is a blur of grey water and green, and you are laughing, utterly lost in the glorious madness of him. He's a madman. Your madman. And you have never loved him more.
He bursts through the cottage door, kicking it shut behind him with a thunderous bang. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, crossing the small space in three long strides before unceremoniously dumping you onto your bed. The furs are soft, the mattress a welcome relief, and the fire burning in the hearth bathes the room in a warm, golden glow that makes the rain outside seem a distant memory.
You land with a soft oomph, bouncing slightly on the mattress. He's on you in an instant, a mountain of wet, hot skin and hard muscle. The shock of it is electric. You are both soaked, and the water from his hair and skin drips onto your face, your neck, your breasts, mingling with the heat rising from your own body. He smells of rain and clean earth.
"You are a menace," he growls as he makes quick work of the last remnants of your sodden dress, peeling the wet wool from your legs and tossing it to the floor. Then his hands are on you, everywhere, tracing the curves of your hips, the softness of your thighs. He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand splayed across your stomach, and he just looks. His gaze is so intense, so full and raw, that it makes your breath catch.
"Dunk," you whisper, reaching for him.
You pull him down, needing his weight on you, needing to feel the sheer solid reality of him. He settles over you, a heavy, comforting presence that makes you feel both small and incredibly safe. Your legs part instinctively, making room for him, and he settles into the cradle of your hips. You start to move, a slow, deliberate grind against him. The rough fabric of his breeches is a delicious friction against your most sensitive flesh, and you can't stop the soft moans.
You meet in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, making love with your mouths. His tongue is a slow, sweet invasion, and you meet it, stroke for stroke. Your hands are everywhere, tangling in his damp hair, now tracing the muscles of his back, feeling the way they flex and bunch under your touch.
"Too many clothes," you pant against his jaw, your fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches. "Get them off, Dunk. I want to feel all of you."
He groans and pushes himself up, just enough to give you room. Your fingers are clumsy with haste, but you manage to undo the ties. He shoves the wet leather down his hips, kicking them away. And then he is naked, all of him, and he is magnificent.
His body is a map of old scars and new bruises, a testament to the life he leads. A long, thin one on his ribs, a puckered circle on his shoulder from an arrowhead, a web of smaller ones on his forearms. You know them all. You have kissed them all. But it's not the scars that hold your attention now. It's the overwhelming masculinity of him. His chest is broad and covered in a thatch of dark hair that narrows to a line leading down to the powerful V of his hips. And there, heavy and proud, is the part of him that is yours alone.
He is hard, so hard it looks almost painful and already weeping with need. The sheer size of him still takes your breath away, an intimidating reality that you crave with every fiber of your being.
He lowers himself back over you, but this time, his lips find your breast. He doesn't kiss the nipple, not at first. He kisses the soft, sensitive skin on the underside, then the valley between them. His mouth is hot, and his breath is a warm gust against your skin.
"My beautiful wife. My good girl." He nips gently at the swell of your breast. "I think about this, you know. When I'm on the road. I think about your skin, your taste. I think about burying my face right here and never coming up for air."
His other hand, the one not supporting his weight, begins a slow, torturous journey down your body. It skims over your ribs, pauses to trace the curve of your hip, and then slides down the outside of your thigh. His touch is light, almost teasing, a ghost of a caress that makes your skin prickle with awareness. The heat in your belly builds, a slow, coiling fire that spreads through your veins, making you restless, needy.
You arch against him, a silent, pleading motion, and he finally, finally takes your nipple into his mouth. He sucks, hard, and the sensation is a bolt of lightning. You cry out, a sharp, breathy sound, and your hands fly to his head, holding him to you.
"Dunk," you moan, his name a prayer on your lips.
He lifts his head, a possessive fire in his eyes, and claims your lips again. It's deeper, slower, a thorough, claiming exploration. His tongue strokes against yours, and you can taste yourself on him, faint and sweet. The hand on your thigh moves inward, tracing a path up the sensitive skin until his fingers brush against the highest curve of your thighs.
"Is this for me, my love?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper against your lips. "Is all this wetness for me?"
You can only nod, your words lost, your ability to form coherent thoughts shattered by the gentle, circling motion of his thumb. He's not touching you where you need him most. He's just stroking the sensitive skin around it, a maddening, delicious torture.
"Please," you finally manage to gasp out. "Dunk, please."
But then you push against his chest, a gentle but firm pressure. He lifts his head, ocean eyes clouded with a confusion that is almost comical. He doesn't understand why you'd stop this, why you'd push away the very thing you've been begging for.
You sit up, pushing yourself to your knees in the center of the bed. You take his massive hands in yours, your small fingers looking impossibly delicate against his calloused, scarred knuckles.
"What is it, my love?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern. "Did I hurt you?"
You shake your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. "No," you whisper, your gaze holding his. "No, you could never." You lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. "I want to taste you," you murmur against his skin. "I want to worship you."
He stares at you, utterly bewildered. Worship him? This hedge knight, with more scars than sense and hands better suited to holding a sword than a woman's touch? He opens his mouth to protest, to say something self-deprecating and utterly, painfully Dunk, but you silence him with a look.
"Let me, Dunk," you say, and it's not a request. It's a command, gentle but firm.
Slowly, hesitantly, he nods. He lets you push him, and he shifts until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. You slide off the bed and sink to your knees in the furs before him. The sight makes him suck in a sharp breath. You, his beautiful wife, on your knees for him. The unbidden eroticism of it is a punch to the gut.
You start at his stomach. Your lips trace the hard ridges of his abdomen, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint, clean taste of the rain. You press open-mouthed kisses to each of the old scars, your tongue darting out to soothe his flesh. His muscles jump and twitch under your touch, and you can feel the tension in him, the effort it's taking him to remain still, to let you lead.
Then you move upwards, your face burying in the thick, dark hair on his chest. You inhale deeply, breathing him in. He smells of life, of strength, of safety. You let your tongue flick out, tasting the hollow at the base of his throat before moving to one of his nipples. You circle it slowly, lazily, before taking it into your mouth and sucking gently.
A choked gasp escapes him. His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his neck, and his eyes roll back in his head. His hands curl into fists, the knuckles white. You are utterly destroying him, and you have never felt more powerful.
You lavish the same attention on the other nipple, giving it the same slow, torturous treatment. His breathing is harsh now, a series of uneven pants. He's muttering something, a stream of incoherent praise and curses that are the most beautiful music you've ever heard.
Then, you begin your descent.
You press kisses down the hard plane of his stomach, following the dark, tempting trail of hair that leads to your ultimate goal. You can feel him trembling, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder that runs through his entire frame. You can hear the desperate quality of his breathing. He is at your mercy.
Finally, you are there.
His beautiful cock.
It stands proud and erect, a magnificent, intimidating thing of flushed skin and throbbing veins. You look at it for a long moment, your gaze reverent. This is the part of him that makes you his wife, that fills you so completely, that brings you such exquisite pleasure. This is the part of him that has given you the sweetest aches and the most blissful sighs.
You lean in and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the glistening tip. A bead of pearly fluid wells up, and you taste it with the tip of your tongue. It's slightly bitter, and uniquely him. His entire body jerks at the contact, a full-body spasm.
"Gods," he chokes out, his hands flying to your hair. He doesn't force you, doesn't guide you. He just buries his fingers in the strands, holding on as if for dear life. "What are you... oh, gods..."
You smile, a slow, almost secret smile, and then you take him into your mouth.
You start slow, savoring the experience. Your lips stretch wide to accommodate his impressive girth, the hard, velvety skin sliding over your tongue. You take just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the ridge, teasing the sensitive nerves just beneath.
His hand in your hair tightens, not a pull, but a steady, grounding pressure that makes you hum in pleasure. He's so big. So wonderfully, overwhelmingly big.
He throws his head back again. "Seven bloody hells," he grits out, the words a harsh exhale. He's muttering a stream of curses, praise, and your name, incoherent sounds. He hisses when you take him deeper.
"Your mouth... gods, your mouth... so warm... so wet..."
You take more of him, inch by slow, deliberate inch. You feel your jaw begin to ache, a dull, pleasant ache that only adds to the intensity of the moment. Your saliva pools, and you can't stop a single drop from escaping the corner of your mouth, tracing a glistening path down your chin. But your eyes never leave his.
You hold his gaze, watching the array of emotions flicker across his face. Awe, disbelief, unbridled lust. His mouth is open, his chest heaving. He looks at you, at his beautiful wife on her knees, worshipping him with her mouth, and the look in his eyes is one of pure, shattered reverence.
His hips twitch, a tiny, involuntary movement, and he immediately stills them, a groan of frustration torn from his throat. You can see the struggle in every tense line of his body, the way the muscles in his thighs stand out like knotted rope. He is fighting a primal instinct, a battle of will against want, all for you. He is so good, so fundamentally, achingly good, that he will endure this exquisite torture rather than risk causing you a single moment of discomfort.
Then you hear it. A sound so at odds with his massive frame, so full of vulnerability, it makes your heart clench. A whimper. It's a deep sound that rumbles up from his chest, and it is the most erotic thing you have ever heard. You shiver, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cool air on your bare skin. The sound is a surrender, a confession of his absolute undoing. It makes you want to devour him whole.
You relax your throat, take a deep breath through your nose, and push down, taking him deeper still. You let the head of his cock brush the back of your throat.
The reaction is instantaneous and explosive.
"Oh, fuck!" The word is a roar, torn from his very soul. His control shatters.
Both of his huge hands fly to your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, gripping you tighter. He doesn't push, he just holds on, grounding himself in you as the world spins out of control. He becomes impossibly vocal, a chorus of grunts, groans, and choked-out curses that fill the small cottage.
You swallow around him, a deliberate, rhythmic contraction of your throat muscles. The sound is wet, obscene, and it drives him wild.
"Gods, f-fuck," he gasps, his hips bucking again, a deeper, more desperate thrust this time. "What are you doing to me? Your... your mouth... ah, seven hells... like sweet, hot honey..."
His praise becomes a torrent of raw, unhinged filth, a beautiful but desperate litany that washes over you.
"You love it, don't you?" he pants, his voice slurred with pleasure. "My beautiful girl... down on her knees... taking me so well. Made for me." He groans, a long, shuddering sound. "Swallow again. Yes, like that. Take it."
His eyes are squeezed shut. He is completely, utterly wrecked by you.
"My Dunk," you manage to moan around him, the words a garbled, vibration that makes him cry out. "My love."
"Yours," he grits out, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. The desperation in them is breathtaking. "All yours. Now... gods…”
He tries to pull away, to be a gentleman even in this, but you hold him fast, your hands gripping his powerful thighs, nails digging into the skin. You take him deeper, humming, a clear, unmistakable signal. You want all of him. You want to taste him, to claim him in the same way he claims you.
"Are you sure?" he asks, the last vestiges of his self-control warring with his primal need. "Are you sure, my love?"
You answer by taking him as deep as you can one last time and swallowing, hard.
"Ah, seven hells!" he roars, but with a speed that belies his size, he firmly disengages, pulling free of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. He scoops you up, laying you back against the damp sheets and furs. The world is a blur of motion and panting breaths.
He doesn't hesitate. He kneels between your spread legs, his massive body blocking out the warm glow of the fire, casting you in his shadow. He grips himself at the base, guiding the thick, flushed head to your entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes burning into yours, asking a silent question.
And then he enters you.
It's a single, slow, inexorable slide. He fills you, stretches you, the slick, tight fit a perfect, exquisite union. You feel your own wetness, the way your body grips him, welcoming him home.
You both moan together, a single, harmonious sound. It's not a sound of pain or pleasure alone, but of rightness, of a key finding its lock after a lifetime of searching.
He doesn't move for a long moment, just holds himself deep inside you, letting you both savor the feeling. His body is damp, your skin is damp, the sheets beneath you are damp, but the only thing that matters is the heat building where you are joined.
The sound that tears from your throat is a soft, breathy "Ahhhh," a drawn-out sigh of absolute surrender. Your eyes flutter closed, and your back arches off the bed, pushing your breasts against the hard wall of his chest. The pleasure is a crushing wave that obliterates all thought, all sensation save for the feeling of him inside you.
Your cunt clenches around him, a greedy, involuntary spasm, and he answers with a deep raspy groan. "Oh, gods," he pants, his forehead dropping to yours. His big hands frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that is in stark contrast to the raw, primal way he's claiming you. "So tight. Always so tight for me. Like you were made for me."
Your clit is throbbing, swollen and aching. The pressure of him, the way he's stretching you, is almost enough, but not quite. You need more. You need friction. You need him to move.
“Mmm, Dunk…”
He starts to move, a slow, deliberate retreat followed by an equally slow, deep thrust. The rhythm is hypnotic, a languid dance that stokes the fire in your belly into an inferno. Each stroke drags against your sensitive walls, shooting pleasure through your veins.
"Like that?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against your ear. "Do you like it when I fill you up like this?"
You can't form words. You can only nod, a frantic, desperate motion, your nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice gentle but firm.
Your eyes flutter open, and you're lost in the dark, stormy depths of his. They're burning with a fierce, possessive fire, but underneath it, there's an ocean of love, of worship, that threatens to drown you.
"That's my good girl," he whispers, and the praise, combined with a particularly deep, grinding thrust, makes you cry out, a high, breathy sound. "My beautiful girl. Tell me what you need. Tell your husband how to please you."
"Harder," you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, trying to urge him on. "Dunk, please... harder... faster..."
He complies, his control shattering bit by bit. His movements become quicker, more forceful, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room. He's pounding into you now and it is exactly what you crave. The bed is creaking in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.
"Oh, gods! Dunk! It feels so right... don't stop... please don't stop!" you're crying out, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises that are a perfect echo of his own earlier filth.
He goes faster, harder, just as you begged, but a flicker of something holds him back from unleashing his full, brutal strength. You can feel it in the tensed muscles of his back, the way he holds himself ever so slightly in check. It's because of you.
He can feel your cunt clenching around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms that milk his cock, and the sensation is so overwhelming he's afraid of breaking you. And your moans... gods, your moans. They are high, breathy things, music to his ears, and he loves it, he loves it so much it hurts.
"By the Seven," he grunts, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. "You take it so well. So sweet and tight... a velvet fist around me." His hands are everywhere now. One grips your hip, holding you steady for his thrusts, the other slides up your sweat-slick back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of your throat. He mouths at your pulse point, his teeth scraping your skin.
You scratch him, your nails leaving trails down the broad expanse of his back. He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and in response, his other hand moves, grabbing the entirety of your ass in a grip of possession. He squeezes, hard, and uses the leverage to pull you into each thrust, to meet his cock halfway. He's fucking you now, truly fucking you, with a desperate, frantic energy that borders on violence.
"That's it," he pants."Let me hear how much you need this, my love." He pounds into you, the rhythm relentless. "I love the sounds you make. Let all the gods in the heavens hear how well your husband fucks you."
You are a mess of whimpers and pleas, a babbling stream of "yes, Dunk, yes" and "don't stop, please don't stop." He is your man, this great goddamn knight, and he is ruining you for any other. He is your world.
"I love you," he whispers, the words a raw, vulnerable confession against the shell of your ear. He says it again, a mantra, a prayer. "Love you, love you, love you," as he fucks into you, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust.
And then you feel it. The knot in your belly tightening to an impossible degree, the world narrowing to the single, blinding point where you are joined. You're so close, hovering on the very precipice.
He feels it too. He feels the change in your body, the way your inner walls begin to flutter and spasm. And in a move that shatters you completely, he stops.
With a groan of effort, he pulls out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty. Before you can even form a protest, he's shifting, moving down your body with a speed and grace that is startling in a man of his size. He settles between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider apart.
"Dunk!" you cry out, your voice a ragged, desperate thing. "What are you d-"
Your question is cut off by a gasp as he buries his face in your cunt. There is no teasing, no gentleness. His tongue, flat and wide, strokes through your slick folds, a direct, unerring path to your throbbing clit. He wraps his lips around the sensitive nub and sucks, hard.
Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as if you're afraid he might stop. He doesn't. He devours you, his tongue a wicked, swirling torment, his lips a persistent, sucking pressure that is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Please," you sob, the word a broken, desperate plea. "Oh, gods... Dunk... please..."
His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still for his assault. He slides one long, thick finger inside you, then another, curling them upwards to find that hidden place inside you. He pumps them in and out, in perfect, maddening rhythm with the sucking of his mouth.
That's it. That's all it takes.
The orgasm rips through you, violent and beautiful. A high, thin squeal is torn from your throat, a sound you don't recognize as your own. It's followed by a series of helpless, breathy moans, each one punctuated by a wave of pleasure that is so intense it borders on pain. Your body convulses, your back bowing, your thighs clamping around his head. Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, grounding yourself in him as the world dissolves into a tapestry of blinding light and roaring sound.
"Dunk! Oh, gods, Dunk!"
He doesn't stop. He lets you ride out the storm against his mouth, drinking down your release as if it's the finest wine. He is the best man you know, the best knight, and he is giving you all of himself.
As the last tremor subsides, a sob of overwhelming emotion escapes your lips. "I love you," you gasp, the words a raw, ragged confession. "I love you so much."
He lifts his head, his face shining with your essence. He licks his lips and the sight of it makes your cunt clench with a renewed, desperate ache.
He rises, moving over you with fluid grace. And then he's back inside you.
This time, it's different. There's no slow, gentle entry. He slams into you, one thrust that almost takes you off the bed. The breath is knocked from your lungs. He's so deep, deeper than ever before, and you can feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against every sensitive inch of you.
Each retreat is a sweet, agonizing emptiness, each return a homecoming that fills you so completely you think you might break apart.
Your response is immediate and uncontrollable. You start to squeal again, a series of high, desperate sounds that you can't hold back.
"Ah! Ah! Dunk! Oh, gods, right there!" Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
He leans down, his massive body blanketing yours, and his hands find your breasts. He cups them, his thumbs flicking over your hard, sensitive nipples, teasing them, tormenting them. The sensations are overwhelming, a perfect, exquisite storm hurtling you, toward another, even more powerful peak.
"Again for me, my love," he whispers, his lips brushing against yours. "I want to feel you cum on me this time. I want to feel you milk me dry."
You can only whimper, a desperate, needy sound that is all the encouragement he needs. He claims your lips then, and it's a messy, desperate kiss. He's not just kissing you; he's breathing for you, sharing your air, your spit. His tongue plunges into your mouth, a hard, possessive thrust that mimics the rhythm of his hips. You suck on it, greedily, desperately, your tongue dancing with his.
"So beautiful. So wild. My wild little wife." He slows his pace, making each thrust a deliberate, grinding circle that rubs against your clit. "Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like this? Tell me…”
"Yes!" you scream, the word torn from your very soul. "Only you, Dunk! Only ever you!"
"Good girl," he rasps as he buries himself to the hilt and stills.
The words are a choked, raw confession. "Yours," he gasps, the rhythm of the word matching the frantic, uneven beat of his heart against your chest. "All yours, my love. My wife. My... my everything."
Then he pushes himself up, his powerful arms straightening. He's still deep inside you, and the movement shifts him. Then he's grabbing your legs, his hands wrapping around the backs of your knees. He lifts them, pushing them up, up, up, until he can rest them on his broad shoulders. The new angle is devastating, opening you completely to him, allowing him to plunge deeper than ever before, a depth that feels impossible, a divine intrusion.
"Dunk," you whimper, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. The position is vulnerable, exposed, but all you feel is a thrill of power. You are a feast laid out for a god, and you have never felt more beautiful.
He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a fire that threatens to consume you both. And then he starts to move again.
"Mmmhmm," he grunts, the sound deep and guttural, torn from his chest with each powerful thrust. "Ughh... gods... look at you... takin' all of me."
The rhythm is relentless. The headboard is a frantic, percussive beat against the wall, a wild, tribal rhythm for your desperate coupling. Your moans are no longer words, just a series of high, desperate cries.
"Deeper," you sob, your hands fisting in the furs beneath you, your knuckles white. "Dunk, you're so deep... I can feel it... gods, I can feel you everywhere."
"You like that, don't you?" he pants. He's looking down, watching himself disappear into you, and the sight is clearly driving him wild. "You like me buried so deep you can't breathe."
"Yes! Yes, I love it!" you cry out, your back arching off the bed. You look up at him, really look at him, at the sheer, overwhelming size of him. His massive chest is heaving, the muscles in his arms and stomach standing out in sharp relief. His face is a beautiful agony of pleasure and exertion. His goregous blue eyes are locked on yours, and the connection is so intense it's almost painful.
And then, a sudden, shocking tenderness.
He slows, his thrusts becoming long, slow, and deep. He carefully unwraps one of your legs from his shoulder. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he's stopping, that he's done. But he's not. He takes your small, delicate foot in his massive, calloused hand. His thumb strokes the arch, a slow, gentle motion that makes you shiver. He looks at your foot, at the delicate bones and soft skin, with the same awe he looks at your face.
And then he presses it flat against the center of his chest, right over his frantically pounding heart.
The contact is a shock. You can feel the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against your sole, a desperate, primal drumbeat. The gesture is so intimate, so possessive, so achingly tender that it steals the breath from your lungs.
"Feel that, m’love?" he asks, his voice a low murmur, barely audible over the sound of your own desperate cries. "That's you. You do that to me. You're the only one... the only one in this whole world who can make my heart beat like this." He starts to move again, a slow, grinding rhythm that is somehow more devastating than the frantic pounding. "The only one who can break my fucking heart."
A sob, raw and ragged, tears from your throat. "Never," you gasp, your other leg wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him closer, to fuse your bodies together. "Never, never, never!" Tears stream from your eyes, tracing paths through the sweat on your temples. You're not just crying from pleasure, but from a love so overwhelming it feels like a physical force.
You look up at him, at this giant of a man, this shy, good-hearted knight who could break you in two without a thought, who is holding your foot to his heart as if it's a sacred relic. He is everything. He is your entire world.
"You're my knight," you sob, the words a sacred vow. "My Dunk. My love."
And with those words, something inside him breaks.
He roars as he releases your leg, letting it fall back to the bed, and then he is on you. He covers you completely, a mountain of hot, hard muscle, his forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his harsh pants hot and ragged against your skin.
"Ughh... gods," he grunts, the words a raw, guttural sound against your ear. "Say it again."
"My Dunk… my love… ‘m yours," you moan, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin, holding on for dear life as he resumes a desperate rhythm. "All yours, my knight. My husband."
"Mmmhmm," he groans. His thrusts are short, sharp, and deep, aimed at that one spot deep inside you that makes your vision go white. Each one is accompanied by a raw, guttural sound from deep in his chest.
His cock is rubbing against your clit with each thrust, a constant, maddening friction that is pushing you, hurtling you, toward a peak so intense you're almost afraid of it. His balls are slapping against your arse, the sound filling up the small room.
You can feel him starting to lose control. The rhythm of his hips becomes erratic, less a dance and more a search for release.
Your hands map the landscape of his back, a frantic exploration of quivering muscle and sweat-slick skin.
"Let go, my love," you whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. You tilt your hips up to meet him, a silent, urgent invitation. "Don't hold back. I want all of you. Spill your seed inside me, Dunk. Give me every last drop."
A shudder wracks his massive frame, a wave that you feel deep in your own bones. He lifts his head, and his eyes are wild, unfocused, a storm of love and lust that threatens to consume you both. And then, he does something that shatters you completely.
He lowers his head. He lifts your thigh, and presses a soft, lingering kiss there. It's a kiss of absolute reverence, a benediction, an act of worship so profound it makes your soul ache.
With a final, guttural groan, he shifts, letting your leg fall to wrap around his powerful waist.
"Ah, gods," you sob, the sound torn from your very soul.
The coil in your belly tightens again to an impossible degree, a white-hot knot of pure sensation. Your entire body is trembling, a fine, uncontrollable quiver that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming force of your pleasure. "Dunk…’m close," you gasp, the words a desperate, ragged plea. "I'm so close. Don't stop... please don't stop."
He answers with a series of deep moans.
"Mmmhmm... ughh... my love... my wife..."
His hips are a blur of motion now, a relentless, driving rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.
You meet his gaze, and the connection is pure love and lust that flows between you, binding you together. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, a window into a soul laid bare.
"Fill me," you beg, your voice a husky, desperate whisper that is thick with need. "Dunk, please... I want to feel your hot seed. Give it to me. All of it. Claim me. Make me yours."
"Yes!" you sob, the word a torn, ragged thing. "Yes, gods, Dunk, yes! You're giving it to me so good... so deep... so perfect... Ughh... don't stop..."
"Say it," he demands, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Say that you're mine, beautiful."
"I'm yours!" you cry out, the words a sacred vow. "All yours, Dunk! My knight! My love!"
He takes your face in his hands, forcing you to hold his gaze. "Look at me," he pants, his hips pistoning, a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Look at me when you cum for me, my beautiful girl."
The command is the final push.
A scream is torn from your throat, a high, thin sound of pure. The orgasm rips through you, so violent and beautiful. Your cunt clenches around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms, milking him for all he's worth.
"Ah, gods... yes... you're gripping me so tight," he grunts, the words a choked, admiring gasp. "Mmmhmm... that's it... take it all, my love."
Your body convulses, a series of tremors that rack your frame, helpless in the face of the overwhelming pleasure.
"Dunk! Dunk! Dunk!"
You feel the hot pulse of him, a deep, rhythmic throbbing as he spills himself inside you, filling you with his seed. He pours all of himself into you, not just his body, but his soul, his love, his very life force.
He collapses onto you, a dead weight, a mountain of boneless muscle. You can't breathe, but you don't care. You wrap your arms and legs around him, holding him close, never wanting to let him go. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, a beat that slowly, slowly, begins to return to a normal rhythm.You lie there for a long time, listening to the sound of the rain.
The world slowly comes back into focus. The warmth of the fire on your skin, the scent of rain and damp earth, the rough texture of the furs beneath you. The pounding in your ears subsides, replaced by the crackle of the fire.
Dunk's weight is an anchor, a solid, living shield that pins you to the earth and makes you feel safe, cherished. You rest your cheek on the broad expanse of his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful thump-thump against your skin. His arms are banded around you, one splayed across your back, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers stroking your hair in a slow, soothing rhythm.
You can feel the dampness of his sweat and yours, the slickness of your combined releases between your thighs. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of him, of you. It's a primal, comforting scent, the scent of home.
"I could stay like this forever," you whisper, your voice muffled against his skin. "Right here. With you."
His chest rumbles with a low, contented hum. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that resonates through your entire body. "And the world would likely fall to ruin while we did. The crops would wither, the roof would leak, and Egg would likely burn the keep down." He pauses, and you can feel the smile in his voice. "But by the Seven, it would be a happy ruin."
You smile, a slow, lazy thing, and press a soft kiss to the damp hair on his chest. "I'd rather have a happy ruin with you than a pristine world without."
He shifts slightly, rolling onto his side but keeping you tucked securely against him. He props himself up on an elbow, his free hand coming up to gently trace the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. His touch is so gentle, it almost breaks your heart. He looks at you, and the love in his eyes is a physical thing, a warmth that spreads through your chest.
"Sometimes," he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant, "I look at you, and I wonder what I did to deserve this. To deserve you."
Your smile fades, replaced by a rush of fierce, protective love. "You deserve this, Dunk. You deserve everything good in this world."
"I'm a hedge knight," he says, a familiar, self-deprecating note in his voice. "I've little more to my name than this horse, this sword, and the clothes on my back. I'm big and clumsy and I've a temper that gets the better of me more than I'd like."
"You're Ser Duncan the Tall," you correct him, your hand coming up to cover his where it rests on your cheek. "You're the kindest, most honorable man I have ever known. You're strong, and you're brave, and you have a good heart. That's worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock."
A slow, deep flush creeps up Dunk's neck, spreading across his face, a stark crimson against the backdrop of his scars. The shy hedge knight is back, abashed by your praise even after the most intimate of acts. He tries to look away, but you hold his gaze, your fingers tightening on his.
"And," you add, a wicked glint in your eye, "you do things with your tongue and your hands that would make a pillowhouse whore weep with envy. So I'd say I've quite the bargain."
A little sound escapes him, a cross between a laugh and a gasp. He buries his face in your hair, his great body shaking with laughter. The vibration is a warm, pleasant rumble against your skin.
"Seven save me, you have a wicked tongue yourself, woman," he mumbles against your shoulder, but he's smiling. You can feel it in the curve of his lips against your skin.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. His arms are a fortress around you, an unbreachable wall of muscle and warmth. The rain continues its assault on the cottage roof, a steady, percussive rhythm that is no longer a storm, but a song, a lullaby.
In the safety of his arms, the world outside ceases to exist.
"This is my favorite part," you murmur, your voice sleepy and content.
"Hmm?" he rumbles, already half-lost in the comfortable haze that follows.
"This," you say, softly. "After. When the world is quiet and it's just you and me. When you're not a knight and I'm not... well, whatever I am to the world. We're just... us."
He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might have drifted off. Then he speaks, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. "This is all I've ever wanted," he confesses, the words carrying the weight of a lifetime of loneliness. "Not glory. Not lands or a title. Just this. A small cottage. A warm fire. And you."
His arms tighten around you, a reflexive, protective gesture. "I'd burn the world down to keep this," he says, his voice suddenly fierce, absolute. "To keep you safe. I'd walk through fire for you, my love. You know that, don't you?"
You lift your head, your eyes finding his in the warm, dim light of the fire. There are no shadows of doubt in them, only a fierce certainty. He means it. Every word. This great, humble, awkward man would face down gods and monsters for you.
You close your eyes, letting the scent of rain and woodsmoke pull you under, knowing that when the sun finally breaks through the clouds tomorrow, you will still be exactly where you belong: safe within the arms of the love of your life, your protector. Your knight of the seven heavens.
summary: If he only could, Maekar would gladly sit by his wife’s side through her whole sickness. When he finally manages to run from his duties and rush to her, he has to throw a certain man outside the chamber and care for the woman himself. Just like he prefers it.
tags: sick fic!, maekar makes threats but that's not very new, second wife!reader, she loves aegon like he is her own, maekar loves that woman oh so badly but he tries to play it cool, they are both so alike, non-sugestive nudity, teasing
word count: 3.4k
a/n: i REFUSE (!!!) to watch episode 5 for now, so here i am with my silly stuff. still, expect some tragedy from me in the future.
“I finished,” said Aegon, swinging his legs off the chair. His face showed little certainty, when he kept glaring at his own notes like they personally offended him.
“Show it to me.”
The bones in your back cracked painfully, as you moved to sit up in the bed. It annoyed you over comprehension – the weakness overtaking you, making you feel like a rugged doll. You imagined being punched till unconsciousness to be a similar experience, except your state dragged on for two days now.
Your insides ached for some movement, for straightening your body, but whenever you tried to stand up your head spun and limbs refused to serve you.
You made yourself as comfortable as you could and waved for the boy to pass you his book and papers. You looked away from the reading after seeing a few sentences, to send him a little smile. Once again he was being harsh in his judgment. The writing wasn’t perfect, it certainly wasn’t passionate or without mistakes, but it was enough for the prince to be proud of himself. You definitely were.
Aegon was a child smart over his years, but that didn’t mean he was fond of doing geography assignments. It was enough that he ran away from his maester, probably when the poor man closed his eyes for a mere moment. You bet he panicked when the little prince was gone, while he was supposed to be doing the writing…
Your heart swelled when you saw his little head peak from the door this morning. “How are you feeling?” He asked quietly.
The closed drapes and dim light in the room told him everything about your possible headache, and considerable as he was, he didn't wish to make it worse.
You welcomed him inside, but with a warning that he shouldn't come too close. You appreciated the boy’s concern a lot.
It was sweet but heartbreaking, seeing the way he looked at you when he thought you didn’t see – not a look of a prince, a carefully educated Targaryen, but just a boy who lost his mother far too early.
Aegon adored you, and if you only didn’t battle the awful sickness, you would gladly gather him in your arms like you often did. He liked to be treated seriously, approached like a reasonable child, but you knew he sometimes needed the assurance, the closeness and promises that everything would be fine. Especially, when he made that sad face, like he was truly concerned for your fate.
You saw it a lot on him today, and you cursed your own condition. It was hard to keep him away, but you knew infecting him would be much worse.
“It is a splendid work, Aegon.”
You didn't mind that he tried to lie to you about his supposed free time. He couldn't fool you, but you didn’t pry, and suggested that he should do his job anyway, just here, by your side. You called the servant to move the hangings a bit, so he could read in proper light.
It seemed like he could always find his way to you. You imagined your tray always full of sweets had something to do with it – a tray that was prepared just for him, but you wanted him to remain unaware.
When you hummed in recognition while reading, he started to climb up the bed to sit next to you, and it broke your heart to stop him. “Egg, carefully! I won't forgive myself if…”
“I know.” He nodded and obediently stood a few steps back. You smiled at him weakly. “Well, if I caught it too, I could at least keep you company…”
“Oh, yes, and avoid lessons, hm?” You offered.
“Maybe… if I had a bad temperature?”
“You're a smart boy, you mustn’t waste it, my dear,” you reminded, and he only shrugged. “You are finding ways to avoid them anyway, look at you here!”
You were pretty glad of that – not as much as Maekar, though – that except being better than his brothers in books, Aegon could also find his way around the court. He could avoid events, and find events when he wanted. He wasn’t easy to fool, and remained polite while still having a bone of inducibility in him.
“You won't tell anyone?” He asked in hope.
“Of course, I won't tell anyone. Who do you think I am, Egg?”
He answered you with a bright smile and took the checked paper from you.
“Do you think the maester will forgive me? It wasn’t nice to leave him without a word…”
“He will have to. You completed your assignment, after all!”
“Because you forced me,” he pointed out, and you laughed weakly.
“Well, he doesn’t need to know that, yes?”
A soft knock interrupted your peace, and the prince instinctively tucked his papers behind his back. You ordered the person to come inside, and soon your caretaker bowed his head. The maester’s age was not impressive, you would even say that he was a young man, but his skills in healing deserved all praises. You knew his story – he gained most of his knowledge by assisting the people who tended to the king, and was now assigned to other Targaryens.
In these past few days you grew to appreciate his abilities, but they weren’t making him any more approachable. He was not indifferent, not openly rude – your lord husband wouldn’t allow you to keep such a man close – but his remarks were always haughty.
“Your grace,” he said proudly, while putting down his apparatus that – you hoped – he only carried around for the effect, and wasn’t going to use them on you.
Then his eyes twitched, when he noticed the boy standing close to your bed.
“Oh, little prince Aegon! Your maester was looking for you, boy. The poor man is out of his mind worrying,” he muttered in a scolding voice that you didn’t like at all.
Egg merely shrugged his shoulders, not very worried about a man like that. You waved your hand at the maester to let him know he should leave the matter.
“I asked prince Aegon to sit with me, since he was done with his assignment and the maester decided it's a good moment for a nap,” you said barefacedly, betraying signs of made up annoyance.
Aegon looked down to hide the smile when you winked at him.
“Oh, that is quite unacceptable of him…” he hummed, like any of that truly interested him. You knew it didn’t, but he wasn’t blunt enough to clap his hands and turn to your health just yet.
It wasn’t long, though.
“Are you feeling better, your grace?”
“I’m alive. That would be it,” you mumbled, knowing that he will force you to elaborate anyway.
But he put his attention on Aegon first. He gestured at him like he was not even a common boy, but a dirty little beggar under his feet. Truth be told, if that’s how he treated a prince, you really didn’t want to know how he approached the poorest of sick people. You would pray that they never have to face him…
“Alright, my prince. Leave now, we have no use for your presence.”
Aegon looked at you with confusion on his face. He was not used to being spoken to that way, and even if it didn’t offend him really, it clearly caught him off guard.
“It is alright, Egg. Go and enjoy the rest of your day,” you added quickly, to make sure he won’t make that sad face again, which would make you throw the maester out and sentence him for two days in stocks. “Oh, and apologize to the maester in my name.”
“I will,” Aegon promised, while disappearing from the chamber.
He left heavy silence after him, which clearly remained unnoticed by the maester. He rearranged his things, and looked at the notes about your health again.
“So… the temperature is what worries me, my princess. I will check if you’re burning again,” he had the decency to warn you, before he stepped closer, and you had the chance to catch his hand.
He opened his eyes in shock, but was calmed by your peaceful face.
“The prince doesn’t deserve harshness like the one you showed him,” you said firmly, despite keeping your composure. It was just a wish, a piece of advice to direct him.
“I… I worried that he will exhaust you, my princess. You should save your strength now, and not waste it on the boy’s nonsenses."
“The prince is far from saying any nonsense, and you must know that I find his company very calming. Thank you for your concern.”
He bowed, as if to sooth your irritation. “It is my job, your grace.”
He made sure to check how you are feeling, made new reports of your state, and mixed some of his herbs.
The whole arrangement was taking awfully long – just like the sickness – and you started to get bored. Being tied to a bed was far from your dreams, and a terrible company of the maester only made it less bearable.
All you wished for now was that your husband would finally find a moment of freedom to come see you. You didn’t know how powerful your unspoken wish was.
“So how is the court?” You broke the silence, tired of only hearing your own stertorous breath. “I hope I didn’t burden the prince too much with the duties I had to leave on him.”
The man looked up from his job, like he was offended that you dared to interrupt him. You could see when he forced himself to remain calm, and turned to the book again.
“My princess, you shouldn't doubt your husband,” he said firmly, with superiority.
It boiled your blood, truly. Not only did he spoke to Aegon like he held very little respect for him, due to his age, but he also now lectured you.
“I don't doubt him, you cunt,” you spat, surprising yourself.
Normally you wouldn’t be so quick to jump into anger, but today your weariness dragged you into this irritable, unstable state. Also, Maekar’s company wasn't a good influence in the matter of keeping your patience on a leash.
You watched the man’s shocked expression with a frown, and in the corner of your eyes you saw the door open again. To your mild entertainment and satisfaction – the maester didn’t, and kept staring at you like you had slapped him.
Just then Maekar grunted, not really sure what he stepped into. All he knew was that he heard your heated remark. He had to fight his own smirk, since he would make him look too approachable. He didn’t want that. Especially with that sorry fucking excuse of a monk nearby, currently by your bed.
The maester rolled his eyes, and made an assumption dangerous for his safety.
“Aegon, I told you not to–”
The words died on his tongue, when he saw the boy’s father instead. He closed the door after him quite firmly, and took a few steps closer. It was funny to watch; he looked like a hunting animal who took pride from circling its surrounded prey.
“Prince Maekar! I apologize for the mistake…” The maester bowed his head low, but that was not enough for Maekar.
The king’s youngest son nodded, like he only confirmed his thoughts. He didn’t look you in the eyes just yet, and if he intended to play with the maester, you expected he would not do that for a while.
“A mistake is forgivable. Speaking about a prince with no respect, less so.” He stepped closer, until the younger man backed off into a wooden dresser, and gulped visibly. “He might be an unruly child, but to you, he is a grandson of the king.”
“Of course, your grace…”
Suddenly your entertainment was spoiled by a terrible headache hitting you.
“The same goes to my wife. Especially when you are tending to her, do you hear me? Next time I will have your tongue so you don’t bother her with speaking again,” he threatened, obviously far too roughly for the considerably small offence. “And she doesn’t doubt me, you cunt,” he repeated, and you had to roll your eyes, despite the pain.
“The man meant no disrespect, Maekar. Please–” You were interrupted by a violent fit of cough, “please, lower your voice,” you barely managed to choke out.
Your voice suddenly fell small, your throat felt dry, and you turned your head to the side, to hide the tears welling up in your eyes from the lack of proper breathing.
“My prince, if you would allow me…”
Maekar scoffed.
“Why in the seven hells are you asking, you fool? Do your thing!”
He almost pushed the man to your side, and soon a cold hand touched your heated forehead. He forced you to drink some awful medicine and applied ointments on the nape of your neck.
Maekar watched him like a hawk, especially when the maester suggested that washing your face with ice-cold water would help – if not with the temperature, then at least with the headache. You didn’t care much anymore, you just wanted for it to be gone. Soon a small basin was carried inside.
You managed to throw a threatening look at your resentful husband, who kept staring daggers at the young man’s back. With your silent pleading, an ask that he didn’t like at all, he had to give in.
Maekar moved to the window to stare outside, just for a moment, when he heard your piercing scream.
“You–” your voice died in your throat. “You fucking idiot!”
Maekar turned and if only he had his sword on him, his hand would certainly fly to the handle.
But don’t let it fool you: prince Maekar wasn’t any less dangerous unarmed.
He saw that you had jumped out of bed and was now dripping in the cold water that must have been spilled on you as an accident.
The maester’s hands trembled, and with a glare of pure terror aimed at prince Maekar, he sank to his knees.
“Your grace…”
“Don't your grace me!” You continued, your body shaking.
You clutched the bedding, wanting to throw it over your shoulders, but they turned out to be equally wet.
The kneeling man was snatched up as quickly as he fell. He pleaded incoherently when Maekar held him by the collar, grunting his teeth.
It was your unsteady, heavy breath that made Maekar abandon the idea of calling for an executioner to lend him his axe, and turning your personal bedroom into a place of brutal torment.
“You are the luckiest fool in this kingdom today,” he rasped out, and dragged the man to the door. He made sure to make his grasp especially painful. “Don’t you fucking dare to cross my way again, or you will be thrown into wintry Blackwater Bay. Then you will be toasted on a fucking stake, just to drown you ultimately.”
“Y–yes, my prince…”
You could hear the man hit the ground, and you could only imagine he crawled back, as far from the chamber as he could.
Unfortunately your clattering teeth didn’t allow you to hear much. You were too focused on hugging your own arms around you for some heat, and tried to find a dry piece of the bedding to crawl under.
“He was watching you while you were dressed like this?”
Maekar moved behind you, and you could recognize he was clenching his jaw from anger. It was all in his voice, the anger not aimed at you, but the threatened man.
“Was I supposed to wear a high neck and long sleeves?” You rasped out in a desperate scoff.
You had a simple nightgown on you, the neck not very low, neither too see-through. Only now it was all wet… Well, if the maester wished to see more before, your husband was seeing just that right now.
A strong pull turned you around and Maekar threw an arm around your shoulders to hold you close. Without allowing you to move even a bit, he turned to a coffer and looked for something that could warm you.
He flinched from the cold when he snapped the gown clinging to your body off of it, and wrapped the fur around you.
There was one thing worse than a sick princess of a realm, and it was a sick princess and a prince. Still, you didn’t even try pleading for him to stay away. There was no chance to make him change his mind about holding you close at nights, and if he did that, there was no reason why he wouldn’t do it now.
He was an experienced man who faced sicknesses, battles and things far worse. He patiently changed your compresses over and over again when you were burning up, and warmed you with his presence when you shivered. There was always an unspoken promise in his acts, and you knew he would never abandon you; in health or lack of it.
“I'll send for someone competent,” he said quietly, irritation still staining his voice.
“That man was competent,” you reminded, even if it was now hard to believe in.
Maekar giggled a nasty laugh.
“You must be out of your mind, really. He spilled a bucket of water on you!”
“Out of fear for you…”
“That is his one advantage, then: he should be afraid of me.”
He tried to drag your idle body to the bed, but you clung to his neck and made him stop in his tracks. Soon he was sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, with you curled up on his lap, wrapped in furs. With carefulness that only you knew, he brushed your hair out of your face, and took the wet strands from under the fur, so they don’t irritate the bare skin on your neck.
A big hand kept on your head made you lean even more into him. You smirked weakly when you noticed that your shallow breath on his throat gave him shivers.
“I hate this place,” he grunted, caressing your body. He didn’t even notice, but he started swaying in the chair softly. You didn’t know if it was a habit from his children’s young years, or if he thought it would soothe you too, but it warmed your heart. And warmth was what you needed more than anything that moment.
“The very second the snow melts, we leave for Summerhall. I’m sick of it all…” he kept complaining, and you laughed despite the terrible trembling of your body that you couldn’t stop.
“You are sick of it? Look at me.”
“Fair. You look awful these last few days,” he admitted insolently, earning a weak smack on the shoulder from you. “What? You’re not a specimen of strength now, darling. It would be different if you could listen to me and…”
“Not overwork myself?” You offered, hearing the talk for the numerous times in the past few days.
“Aye,” he grumbled. “I couldn’t catch a fucking moment of peace with you, that’s how busy you were. Now you have to pay.”
“To you?”
“I wish. Maybe when you are less sweaty from burning up,” he joked cruelly, but smirked. “To your own body, I meant.”
You only scoffed, obediently laying your head on his chest.
“I’m counting the days to our leave as well,” you confessed quietly.
Unfortunately, your husband had duties to attend to, and despite your complaints that he was abandoning you again, he didn’t buck.
“You have to lay down,” he ordered, moving you to the bed. Tucking you it, he held your shoulder like you would try to spring up the moment he was gone. “Rest,” he said in a voice almost threatening.
“But–”
“Do you think I'm an incapable fool, like the man suggested?” His rasp was teasing, of course, but you knew him well enough to be aware of the idea sown in that thick head of his.
“Never. I just don’t want to behead anyone while–”
He interrupted you again, like an annoyed teenage boy who was teased enough to snap. “When you’re not there to tame me?”
You smiled widely. You looked weak, felt even worse, but Maekar never saw a sight more dear to him.
summary: due to Bruce distancing himself from reading and seeing other women - batfam has to watch their mom willow away.
pt 2
For the twenty-five years, Bruce and Name have been married together - Alfred has never seen Name so withdrawn - so detached . He watches every morning how Name's frail body maneuvers around the kitchen making her own breakfast -
God knows how many times he's asked that stubborn woman to allow him to cook for him but she has always refused him with a quiet smile and a wave of hand. He watches her glide around the kitchen- a woman of once poise and grace reduced to her fumbling with simply holding a cereal box.
Alfred could never pin point where it had all went wrong in their marriage - they were both high-school sweethearts- their marriage was beautiful- he'd know because he had honored it himself. To see them so distant aches his heart.
Alfred knows Bruce has a mission - to save Gotham- a mission that seems ever lasting - a mission that had consumed him entirely to the point it took him over . It took away his relationship with his kids and his own wife .
Alfred would always shoot him disapproving looks when he sees Bruce being too flirty with Talia and Selina - he blesses Name's heart for loving Damian all the same like she has with all her other kids but Alfred notices since then she is virtual never in the same place with Bruce.
She no longer goes to galas anymore , no longer makes public appearances - maybe its because Bruce always had a different arm candy every other night. It's gotten so bad that even the kids started realizing this - Damian , upon realizing his birth had broken down in Name's arms one night - pleading with her to love him - that he's sorry for being born.
Alfred remembers Name cradling the young boy in her arms all night and assuring him he's the best thing Bruce ever made and that she would never blame him for Bruce's actions. Since then - the young boy has always stuck to Name - every morning, he'd affectionately hand her daily medicine and would always help her wrap a shawl over her shoulders.
Tim and Bruce began arguing - particularly because Bruce starting leaving the massive work of W.E for Tim to handle- it came to a head one night when Name and Bruce argued for two hours straight. He remembered how raw her voice was when she yelled at Bruce for overworked her poor son - that he's young and deserves to live and experience his teenage years.
Bruce had argued that Tim had wanted this - that this was what being Robin was about. Jason- god knows Jason and Bruce doesn't get along - ever since what happened to Joker but they argue even worse when it boils down to Name .
Jason was a child primarily raised by Name - she taught him to trust and showed him everything he knew - down to ironing his shirt to tying his shoelace - Name was the mother Jason never had and God could damn for all he cares but couldn't stand to watch Bruce treat her like she was an option because she wasn't - not to him or his brothers.
Jason always made it a point to call Bruce out for his own hypocrisy, himself and Damian always teamed up against him, especially when he was being too flirty with Selina or some random eye candy.
" I suggest you back off harlot , my mother might not kill you, but I will " - Damian when Bruce and Selina were flirting together on patrol.
" I don't give a fuck if ma begs me not to put a bullet in your head , the next damn time I see you talking about her like that I won't hesitate to skin you alive " - Jason when he caught some arm candy bragging to her friends how the 'Bruce Wayne' took her out on a date in front of Name.
God if anyone argues more with Bruce in this household was Dick - Dick was their first child and a child whom lost everything and yes Bruce may of made him robin but name made him dick grayson - bless that woman's heart for having to deal with his tantrums and outbursts when he was younger -
But that woman despite not birthing him was his mother - the woman who literally hugged him everynight to go to bed , the same woman who made his suit for prom by hand and also the same woman he goes to for advice and comfort - safe to say when he heard what Bruce was doing - they argued non stop-
" For god sake, Bruce, you're destroying us - you're destroying our family, and you don't even care." - Dick when Bruce had called you useless because you couldn't walk up a stairs anymore.
Someone from the outside might think they're dramatic, but ever since Bruce started distancing himself from Name and going out with God knows who , Name has fallen into a deep depression - a type of depression that ensnared them in their deep claws and deprive them of what little happiness and energy they have left.
Most days , Name sits on a swing outside and just exists- barely eats , barely talks anymore - how can they ? How can one fathom to be happy when their own spouse is out cheating on you with different people and to make matter worse the public condones it - even more so enables him.
Always publishing some new article of which new model or actress can become worthy of being Bruce's wife as if she doesn't exist. Alfred swallows as he watches her tonight - they're sat stiffly in a velvet love seat , a faint smile on her face, Damian is resting his head on their shoulder, showing them his latest art piece while quietly talking about his day.
Behind her, jason embraces her in a backhug , head resting on her head - his hands sometimes play with the loose strands. Tim quietly sits beside her , his hand holding her free hand - now and again he'd squeeze it . Dick is sat next to Damian on the love seats' arm rest as he prepares her nightly medicine.
Even if the public and her own husband loathes her, name still has the love of her kids and Alfred as always. Suddenly, the large oak doors of the living room are pushed open - the vibrant warmth interrupted as Bruce steps inside .
Damian quiets - everyone looking at Bruce except for Name - she has taken it to state at her hands. " It's time for patrol" Bruce says grufly . No one responds but reluctantly leaves Name side , Jason side hugs her one last time before leaving .
" Yeah, whatever you say, geaser," He says as he shoves Bruce out of his way to go to the cave . Damian glares at his father , " Hopefully, things are taken seriously on this patrol " he insinuated- knowing eyes glaring right at his father disapproving.
Bruce ignores them and stares at name, " Make dinner before we leave " he orders before promptly walking away. Name says nothing - too numbed out a long while to even react. Dick and Alfred himself curses him while Tim is glaring at the closing door harshly .
" Ma I'll order us something don't stress yourself " Tim assures her while ordering Uber eats for them on his phone . Name doesn't say anything but sends him a small smile. " I can't believe I raised that boy," Alfred murmurs as he shakes his head in disappointment .
Bruce may not realize it now but it's too late to fix anything - too late to pull his wife back in and live the happy life they once had - its too late to repair their broken family since the glue that's stuck them all together is fading away .
ty for reading, please like + comment + share !!!
pls do not hate a on queens talia & selina they won't do this , theyre too girlboss for bruce anyways
Chan looks up from his computer in the studio when his phone beeps from a text.
"Han, would you see what that was?" He was on the other side of the room and didn't want to get up if Han was closer.
He groaned thetrically but did so, swiping Chan's phone open. "It's a text message."
Chan just grunted, implying that Han should read it.
"It's from a 'Wifey'. It says to call her."
"Nevermind!" Chan is up and across the room, snatching the phone from a grinning Han before rushing out of the room before any of the other members could say anything.
There's a short silence before Hyunjin breaks it. "Sooo... Are we eavesdropping or what?"
"Obviously." Han joins him with his ear against the door, shushing the others.
Chan's muffled voice filtered through the door. "-know... No, it's ok, you didn't interrupt... Yeah, send me a list... Oh, just that?... Yes, I got it... Diapers, dish soap, and your chocolates... I know, baby. I'm sorry. I'll be home soon... I love you too, sit tight, ok?... Bye."
They scramble away from the door, horrified.
Baby?
Diapers?
Love?
Home?
Chan opens the door again, clearing his voice and tucking his phone in his back pocket.
Lee Know is the first to speak. "What was that?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing." Chan sits back into his seat, clicking away on his computer.
The others tried to get Hyunjin and Han to tell them what they heard, but they just shook their heads. They didn't want Chan to hear.
"So, you weren't talking to your wife?" Seungmin pipes up from the couch.
Chan freezes. "What? No. That's ridiculous. I'm not married. How would I have time for that?" He laughs nervously, obviously hiding something.
"So you're not married, right?" Hyunjin sits on the edge of the couch.
"Nope!"
"And you don't have a kid?"
"Nope."
"And you aren't living with anyone?"
"Nope!"
"Then why did someone labeled Wifey call you and ask you to get diapers and you tell her that you love her and you'd be home soon?"
The room explodes.
"He did what?"
"Diapers?"
"Love!?"
Chan doesn't move, head bowed over his computer. "It's... complicated?"
Felix sighs. "Just tell us what's going on, Chan."
Chan turns slowly in the chair, elbows on his knees. "How about you guys come over for dinner? I'll explain everything then."
Everyone agrees and decides to leave early to get ready.
Chan obviously had to stop by the store.
Jeongin was the first to arrive, deciding to wait outside the townhouse to go in with everyone at once. If there really was a family in there, he didn't want to go in alone.
Once everyone gathered, Changbin rang the doorbell.
A very pretty, very pregnant lady opened the door, smiling shyly. "Hello. Please, come in. Chris is with Layla."
They enter the small home shellshocked.
Their expectations skyrocketed when Chan walked out of a room holding a little girl, dark curly hair coating her head.
"Say hi, Lay. These are my friends." Chan smiled at her and mimed waving, which she copied quite exuberantly.
"Hi! I see you on the tv! Seungie is my favorite!" She wiggles out of her father's arms and runs to him, latching onto his leg.
Seungmin hesitantly picks her up. "Hi. I'm your favorite?"
She nods. "Yes! You're super funny and have a pretty voice."
He smiles at her. "Thank you. You're pretty funny yourself."
She nods knowingly. "Yes. Daddy says I'm very pretty."
Chan swoops in, snatching her from Seungmin and throwing her into the air before catching her again, making her squeal. "Yes you are! My pretty girl!" He sets her down. "Now, go help mommy. Remember," she speaks with him, nodding and running down the hall, "never let mommy lift anything heavy. Get daddy if I can't pick it up."
"Good girl!" He turns nervously to his friends, standing in the doorway awkwardly. "So... I'm married. And a dad. Of two and a half."
"Wait, two? You have another one?" Jeongin gapes.
Chan laughs and nods, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Layla is three and Carly is one and a half, she's asleep. Haden is due next month. All girls."
"Holy fuck." Han immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, whispering an apology.
"Just how long have you been married?" Hyunjin quirks an eyebrow. "And how long have you been hiding this?"
"Uhh... That's the thing... I brought her with me from Australia..."
"What!?" Felix bursts. "How have I not know about this?"
"We were technically dating when I debuted, but kinda put it on hold. We reached out when the ban ended and got married a year later. So, it's been three years. Our anniversary is in April."
"You got busy quick, didn't you? Three kids in four years." Changbin snickered.
Chan flushed and looked away. "It was a dream we both have, to have a big family. She wanted to be a stay at home mom, and I wanted a big family, so it worked out."
"Why don't we go meet her?" Seungmin suggests.
They file into the kitchen, Chan in the lead. He pulls you into his side, arm around your waist and introduces you and each of the boys.
You nod and grin. "Oh, I know. Layla has your channel on all day, everyday. She screams every time Seungmin comes on screen." You smile at Chan. "Or her daddy."
Seungmin chucles awkwardly, nodding. "Yeah, we met."
"I'm sure you did." You look up at your husband. "Ready to eat? I need to go wake Carly up or she won't sleep tonight."
He kisses the top of your head and nods. "I'll set the table."
The rest of the night is spent with unnerved Stray Kids, entergetic, curly headed kids, and a happy couple.
Your house became an easy destination, the boys popping in whenever or helping with the kids when you needed a break.
They all fell in love with your kids, especially Changbin and Haden when she was born. They were inseperable. You had to call Changbin a couple of times when she wouldn't fall asleep.
The batfam is sick! Good thing the best doctor in Gotham is on the case!
Word Count: 3,702
💮Masterlist💮
"Oh my poor babies," you muttered as you marched into the manor's large kitchen.
Your six year old daughter Martha sat at the counter nibbling an apple you cut for her earlier.
"Everyone is sick Mama?" she rubbed her temples, an action she got from watching you. "That really sucks."
You almost laughed at your little girls honesty and obliviousness. The culprit of this whole snotty infestation couldn’t stop clinging to her big brother Dick when he was leaving with his siblings for an extensive group mission. Dick caught her flu, and passed it along to everyone. The harsh winter weather and everyone insisting they were fine, resulted in a lot of sick vigilantes.
You, Bruce, and Alfred were spared since you three were at home helping Martha feel better and disinfecting every inch of the Manor. But now you three needed to take care of more flu victims that were quarantining at the Manor. Sending them back to their teams bases would just spread the flu to more people.
Your body moved on auto pilot as you quickly thought of your game plan. Little Martha watched you put on your apron and pull out a pen and notepad. You rapidly scribbled meals and ingredients, leaving the notepad every so often to look through the fridge and cabinets. A focused scowl plastered on your face as you moved.
Martha sniffled, her voice cracking as she spoke. “We have to help them, Mama. They need a doctor! They need you!”
You looked at her teary eyed face and rushed over to her. You bent down to her eye level and gently took her tiny hands in yours.
"I can't help them like a doctor does honey. I'm a pharmacist. So I work with medicine. You know the nasty stuff daddy and I gave you when you were sick," Martha nodded. "That's what I work with. Doctors tell you that your sick, and they talk to me, so I can give their patients the medicine they need to feel better. Does that make sense?"
Martha gave a firm nod. "So…we need to get a doctor to say they're sick…and the doctor makes you make them feel better."
"Something like that, yeah."
Suddenly Martha's face lit up. “I’ll get my kit!” She hopped off the stool and ran off, leaving you a little confused.
But when she came back a few minutes later, all of your questions were answered. Martha walked in with her doctor play set. The kit came in a large plastic suitcase on wheels, and came with a children's doctor coat, a mask, and 30 play pieces.
She stopped in front of you, a large triumphant smile on her face. "Doctor Martha is here!"
Just then, Bruce shuffled in — sweats, hoodie, hair slightly mussed, empty mug in his hand. The world’s greatest detective looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a century.
"And daddy can be my nurse," Martha declared.
Bruce turned around, "Huh?"
Bruce knocked on Dick’s door with the practiced patience of a man who hadn't already received twenty-seven texts from Dick that morning. He wore his fluffy white robe as his doctors coat, and a black surgical mask on his face. Martha stood beside him, doctor kit rolling behind her, doctors coat buttoned to the top, mask slightly askew, and play clipboard clutched with Hello Kitty paper close to her chest.
“Come in,” Dick croaked, voice rasping like he’d swallowed gravel.
He was a mess. Hair everywhere, wrapped in two blankets, a cold pack sliding down his forehead. One arm hung dramatically over the side of the bed.
Martha gasped. “Oh no! He’s very sick, Daddy.”
Bruce nodded gravely. “Critical condition.”
Dick peeked an eye open. “Is that my favorite doctor?”
Martha marched forward. “Yes! Doctor Martha Wayne. And this is Nurse Bruce Daddy.”
Dick grinned weakly. “You brought backup. Good. I wasn’t sure I’d make it.”
Bruce took out his phone and dialed your number. He put it on speaker.
“Hey, Doctor Wayne,” your voice came through the line, cheerful and steady. “How’s the patient?”
“Hi, Mama!” Martha chirped. “He’s very hot and sweaty,” Martha reported, pressing her toy thermometer to Dick’s forehead. “And his hair’s going crazy. That means fever.”
Bruce added, deadpan: “Fever of one hundred and… dramatic.”
Dick stuck his tongue out at Bruce and readjusted his ice pack.
You chuckled. “Understood. Doctor Martha, what do you think he needs?”
“Soup, juice, and snuggles,” she said decisively.
“Prescription approved,” you said. “Pharmacy will prepare chicken noodle and vegetable juice. Nurse Bruce Daddy, make sure he doesn’t leave bed.”
“Copy that,” Bruce said.
Dick pouted. "I don't like vegetable juice!"
You said a firm "Too bad." and hung up the phone.
"Who made her the boss?”
Bruce tucked one of the blanket around him, “Her doctorate.”
Martha peeled a sparkly unicorn sticker from her kit and stuck it carefully on Dick’s hand.
“There. That’ll make you brave. Because uniforms are brave."
Dick smiled, small and soft. “Already working, Doc.”
As they stepped out, Bruce texted you:
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Dick is stable. Diagnosis: severe silliness, light fever, 80% improvement after sticker treatment.
Your reply came quick.
From : "My Home ❤️": Pharmacy delivery driver (Alfred) will deliver chicken noodle soup in 20 minutes. Next patient.
Bruce glanced down the hall where the rest of the manor waited in various stages of misery. He sighed, adjusting the toy stethoscope hanging from his neck.
“Come on, Doctor. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
Martha grinned, tugging his hand. “Let’s save more people, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”
The next door was half-closed, a low voice grumbling from inside.
“Come in if you dare,” Jason muttered, muffled by a pillow.
Martha didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door open, tiny doctor coat flapping dramatically. “Doctor Martha Wayne, reporting for duty!”
Jason groaned. “Oh no, they sent the tiny one.”
Bruce followed her in, phone in hand, expression neutral. “Nurse Bruce Daddy assisting.”
Jason peered up from his blanket cocoon. “You’re kidding me.”
Bruce started typing, voice flat. “No, but I will be documenting your symptoms for [Name].”
Marta climbed onto the edge of the bed, stethoscope around her neck, eyes sharp with professional focus. “How are you feeling, big brother Jay?”
He coughed once, wet, deep, and chesty. “Fine.”
She gasped. “Ew! That cough is not fine!” She pressed the plastic stethoscope against his chest, listening intently to absolutely nothing. “Hmm. Your heartbeat sounds… spicy.”
Jason squinted. “Spicy?”
“That means you’ve been eating too many chili dogs,” she said with great authority.
Jason's eyes narrowed at his sister. "Who told you!?"
Bruce called your phone immediately.
"Status report," you asked with a tone too playful to be completely stern.
"Doctor reports patient has "spicy heartbeat.” Likely due to diet of street food and vengeance," Bruce reported.
"Incorrect," Jason weakly pointed at a shaky finger at Bruce. "Street food and spite. Vengeance is your thing."
You let out an amused huff on the other line. "Understood. Prescription: extra-large super green smoothie and no chili dogs until he gets better."
Jason sat up. “Wait, no chili dogs? Don't I need, like, protein or something?"
Unfortunately for Jason, you already hung up before you could listen to his objections.
Martha scribbled on her clipboard, tongue poking out as she wrote. “What Mama says goes.”
Jason sighed, slumping back. “You're brutal like mama.”
Martha patted his arm. “That’s because I care.” She reached into her kit and produced a bright red sticker shaped like a lightning bolt. “You’re strong like Flash. You’ll feel better soon.”
Jason looked at it for a long moment before peeling it carefully off and sticking it on his bedside table lamp. “Thanks sis.”
As they left, Bruce sent one last text:
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient grumpy but compliant. Sticker therapy successful. Moral high.
From: "My Home ❤️": Sounds like you . Next.
Martha tugged Bruce’s hand toward the next hallway. “Come on, Nurse Bruce Daddy! We still have a lot of sickies to fix!”
Bruce smirked faintly. “Lead the way, Doctor.”
The door to Tim’s room was cracked open, the faint glow of a laptop screen flickering inside. Bruce sighed before even knocking. “He’s working,” he muttered.
Martha frowned. “He’s supposed to be resting!”
She pushed the door open and marched straight in, the toy stethoscope bouncing against her chest. “Patient Timmy!” she announced. “You are not allowed to do science when you’re sick!”
Tim turned in his desk chair, coffee mug in his hand, dark circles practically engraved under his eyes. “It’s not science, it’s—”
“Work,” Bruce finished sternly. “Is that coffee!?”
Martha let out a high pitched gasp. "I'm telling Mommy!"
Tim slumped. “Traitor!”
"Get him to bed Nurse Bruce Daddy!"
Bruce didn't hesitate. He rushed towards Tim, but Tim was stubborn. He jumped out of his chair and used it as a shield. "Cut it out Bruce! I'm fine!"
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Bruce pulled the chair away from Tim and tossed it to the side.
Tim lunged towards his bed and clumsily wrapped his duvet around his shoulders. "I'm in bed! I'm in bed! Layoff Nurse Terminator!"
Bruce gave a stern nod and went to pick up Tim's chair. Meanwhile Martha climbed into Tim's bed, wooden tongue depressor in her hand. "Say ahh Timmy."
"Okay, just not too far Martha. I almost threw up last time."
"Okay."
Tim opened his mouth, letting Martha slowly and carefully press his tongue down with the depressor. Tim was patient as she examined the inside of his mouth for…something.
Martha nodded like she suddenly got all the answers she needed. She dropped the depressor on Tim's bed and started scribbling on her clipboard.
Tim leaned over to see what she was writing. "Is it serious doctor?"
Martha didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Yes. Yucky breath and tired eyes.”
Tim groaned into his blanket. “Ruthless.”
Bruce thumbed his phone.
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Timmy diagnosed with ‘yucky breath and tired eyes.’
The reply came fast.
From: "My Home ❤️": Italian meatball soup, lots of water, and mint mouthwash before anyone else suffers.
Tim pulled the duvet higher over his head. “Tell Mom I’m not talking to her anymore.”
Martha smiled proudly, setting a panda sticker on his nightstand. “He’s getting better already.”
Cass’s door was closed, soft music humming from a speaker on the other side. She sat cross-legged on her bed, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes closed as she breathed slowly through a sore throat because her stuffed up nose wouldn't allow something as silly as breathing.
Martha peeked in, whispering, “We have to be quiet, Nurse Bruce Daddy. She’s sleeping sitting up.”
Cass’s lips curved into a small smile. “Not sleeping,” she rasped gently.
Martha crept closer. “Hi, Cass. I’m Doctor Martha. You don’t feel good?”
Cass shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “No I don't Doctor Martha. Can you help me?”
Martha pulled out her trusty clip board. "What are your symptoms?"
"Sore throat. Stuffy nose. And I'm really tired."
Bruce stayed by the doorway, pulling out his phone.
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Cassandra reports fatigue, sinus congestion, and sore throat. Calm and cooperative.
The reply came a moment later.
From: "My Home ❤️": Apple cinnamon oatmeal with honey. Tell Doctor Martha to be extra gentle with her big sister.
Martha reached into her kit, placing a toy thermometer against Cass’s cheek. “Hmm,” she murmured. “You’ve got the sleepies. But don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”
Cass watched her little sister with patient amusement. “Sleepies, huh?”
“Yup. Doctor’s orders — oatmeal, snuggles, and a nap.” Martha opened her case and pulled out a small stuffed axolotl and gave it to Cass. Next she peeled a gold star sticker from her clipboard and pressed it gently to Cass’s shoulder. “For being the quietest patient ever.”
Cass signed thank you, her movement small and soft. Martha brightened and awkwardly mirrored the sign back, making Cass’s eyes glimmer with pure affection.
Bruce sent one last text before pocketing his phone.
To: "My Home ❤️": Stuffy deployed. Sticker therapy successful. Patient Cass resting.
From: "My Home ❤️": Good job! Previous patients received food and medicine. I eagerly await another update.
Cass reached over to squeeze Martha’s tiny hand. “Good doctor,” she whispered.
Bruce knelt beside her and whispered, “You’re four for four, Doctor. Who’s next?”
Martha’s eyes lit up. “Steph! She’s a silly patient. We have to hurry!”
Martha knocked three times before kicking open the door. “Doctor Martha Wayne!” she announced grandly. “House call!”
Steph, bundled up in a mountain of purple blankets, peeked over the top with mock fear. “Oh no, the doctor’s here! Everyone hide the candy!”
Bruce followed her in, phone already out with you on the other line. “Patient appears conscious and sarcastic.”
“Symptom confirmed,” you said seriously, the sound of a knife cutting something on the other line.
Steph laughed, voice hoarse but light. “You’re getting good at this, kiddo.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come on, Doc. You better check my vitals before I die of boredom.”
Martha climbed up, pulling out her toy stethoscope and placing it on Stephs back. “Okay. Deep breaths.”
Steph exaggerated it, huffing like she was blowing up a balloon. Martha nodded gravely and tapped her pen. “Diagnosis: funny lungs.”
You paused your food cutting. "So patient Stephanie exhibits excessive humor and mild congestion. Got it. Prescription: chicken and dumplings, orange juice."
Bruce dipped his chin once in acknowledgment. "Better add one less joke per minute to her prescription."
Steph blew a raspberry at Bruce. “You and [Name] are no fun.”
Martha gasped. “You can’t talk back to the pharmacy!”
Bruce added, “That’s an automatic fine.”
Steph chuckled, her laugh turning into a cough. Martha instantly reached for her toy thermometer and pressed it to Steph’s forehead. “You’re hot!” she blurted, eyes wide.
Steph smirked. “Thanks, I know.”
Martha blinked, confused. “No, I mean your head! You have a fever!”
Steph’s laughter broke into another cough, and Martha’s little hand flew to her back, rubbing in small circles. “Careful! You’re gonna choke on your funny!”
Bruce spoke into his phone. "Patient laughing through cough. Doctor applied small-hand comfort technique."
A kitchen timer rings mid-call. "Ah, the next round of food is done. Tell Doctor Martha she’s doing wonderfully. And remind Steph to drink her water."
Steph retreated back into her cocoon, only her sweaty forehead visible. "Yes ma'am."
Martha tore off a shiny purple cat sticker and stuck it right on Steph’s forehead. “For bravery and too many jokes.”
Steph gave her a weak salute through her blankets. “Best doctor I’ve ever had.”
Martha giggled and hopped off the bed. “Next patient, Nurse Bruce Daddy!”
"Yes Doctor Martha."
Martha didn’t even knock this time. She flung Duke’s door open like a superhero making an entrance. “Doctor Martha Wayne! And Nurse Bruce Daddy!”
Duke sat in the middle of his bed, oversized hoodie on, and a box of tissues balanced on his lap. “Wow, I got the A-team,” he said, voice stuffy but amused.
“You sure did,” Bruce replied, tone flat but eyes warm. “Let's get to work doctor.”
Martha squinted, studying Duke like a detective at a crime scene. “You sound funny.”
“Because my nose is broken,” Duke said with a sniff.
Martha gasped. “You broke your nose!?”
Duke chuckled. “I mean it’s stuffy.”
“Ohhh.” Martha nodded sagely and pulled a toy otoscope from her kit. “Hold still. Doctor Martha will fix it.”
Duke leaned forward obediently while she shined her little plastic light up his nose. “Hmm,” she hummed, dead serious. “Too much nastiness in there.”
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke experiencing nasal congestion. Doctor’s official diagnosis: ‘too much nastiness.’
Duke waved to Bruce to catch his attention. "Tell [Name] my head is pounding from the congestion."
Bruce did what he was asked, and got a text from you minutes later.
To: "My Home ❤️": Administer Pedialyte with emergency congestion and headache medicine set for immediate Alfred delivery. And tell our doctor she’s brilliant.
Martha beamed as Bruce read the text aloud. “See? Mommy thinks I’m smart!”
Duke gently pat Martha's head. “I’d trust you with my life, Doc.”
She reached into her kit and handed him a bright yellow sticker shaped like the sun. “For being the sunshine brother.”
He smiled, pressing it to his hoodie. “Best sticker ever.”
Bruce typed one more note.
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke stable, morale high. Sunshine sticker issued.
Duke raised an eyebrow. “You’re really into this, huh?”
Bruce smiled and shrugged. “Doctor’s orders. And I wanted to make sure everyone's okay.”
Duke looked down at his hands, trying to use his hood to hide his bashful smile. "Thanks Bruce. I appreciate that."
Martha clapped her hands together. “Only one left!”
Bruce glanced down the hall toward the last closed door. “Damian.”
Martha nodded with determination. “He’s the grumpiest patient of all. We have to be brave, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”
Bruce sighed, resigned. “Lead on, Doctor.”
The door to Damian’s room was shut tight, a hand-written note taped to it: DO NOT ENTER.
Martha squinted at it. “He’s scared,” she said defiantly.
Bruce deadpanned, “That’s one interpretation.”
She knocked anyway. “Doctor Martha Wayne! Open up! I have to tell mommy you're sick and give you medicine!”
A muffled voice shot back, sharp as a blade: “Leave the cure by the door. I require no assistance.”
Martha stomped her foot. “He’s refusing treatment!”
Bruce sighed. “He’s refusing everything.”
She turned the handle and pushed the door open before he could stop her.
Damian stood near his desk, arms crossed, sword propped within reach—because of course it was. Titus lay nearby, ears back like he’d already accepted defeat. Damian’s voice was hoarse, his nose red, but his posture screamed battle-ready.
“I’m fine,” he said curtly.
“You’re sniffly,” Martha countered, marching right up to him with her toy thermometer in her right hand, and her toy otoscope in her left.
“That’s not a medical term.”
“You're not a doctor! You don't know!”
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Damian still in denial. Sword present. Proceeding with caution.
A second later:
From: "My Home ❤️": Be careful. Apply stubbornness-countermeasures. Preparing emergency grilled cheese and tomato soup. Administer stealth affection STAT!
“Sit,” Martha ordered, pointing at his bed.
Damian scoffed. “You are not qualified to give orders.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “She has more medical experience than you do, son.”
“Because I trained with assassins, not—” Damian let out a hard sneeze, knocking the wind out of him so hard that he went into a coughing fit.
Martha pointed a finger at her brother dramatically. “Evidence! You are sick!”
He scowled. “That was dust.”
“There’s no dust in my patient rooms,” she said firmly, stepping closer to him and holding out her plastic thermometer. “Hold still!”
Damian dodged left. “I will not.”
She huffed, trying again. “Hold still or I’ll tell Mommy!”
Bruce said slowly, “That’s an effective strategy.”
Damian froze mid-step. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Martha tightened her grip on her thermometer. "Yes. I. Would."
Bruce jumped towards Damian, embracing the boy in a tight bear hug. "Gotcha."
Damian wiggled is shoulders and kicked his feet, but his congestion left him weak and breathless. He gave up his fight almost as soon as he started. He dangled helplessly as Martha stared up at her helpless brother.
Damian looked back at her, his expression somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. "This isn't care! This is tyranny!”
She scribbled on her clipboard. “Diagnosis: very dramatic. Needs puppy snuggles.”
Damian sighed heavily. “Fine. Administer whatever treatment you deem necessary. Quickly.”
Bruce released his hold. When Damian silently climbed into bed, Bruce typed one last note:
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Damian finally compliant. Diagnosis: dramatic fever and acute denial.
From: "My Home ❤️": Good work. I knew I could count on you.
Martha beamed, placing a tiny dinosaur sticker on his wrist. “For being brave and only a little grumpy.”
Damian studied it like it was radioactive, then muttered, “Tch. It’s acceptable.”
Titus barked once, tail thumping on the wood floor.
Bruce crouched beside his daughter. “That’s all the patients, Doctor.”
Martha jumped, proud smile still in place. “We did it.”
“You did,” Bruce said softly, kissing the top of her head. “Now let’s report back to the pharmacy. And tell mommy the good news."
For the first time all day, you weren’t juggling medicine bottles, boiling pots, or a buzzing phone. You sat curled up on the living room couch, a thick blanket on your lap, tea steaming between your hands, firelight flickering against the walls.
Alfred had taken care of the final deliveries himself — insisting that Doctor Martha’s patients deserved proper presentation. He’d left the soup trays and medicine bottles neatly arranged on a rolling cart and disappeared down the hall like the guardian of a very tired hospital ward.
A few minutes later, the familiar tread of heavy steps echoed across the floor. You looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway — hoodie rumpled, hair even more of a mess, and your daughter fast asleep on his shoulder. Her tiny doctor’s coat was crooked, her mask off, and her stethoscope and clipboard securely in Bruce's free hand.
“She insisted on checking Alfred one more time, even though he wasn't sick,” Bruce murmured, voice low so she wouldn’t wake. “Declared him fully cured.”
You smiled. “And what about you, Nurse Bruce Daddy?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Completely healthy.”
“Good,” you said softly, patting the couch beside you. “Because I’m prescribing rest, cuddles, and cookies.”
He set Martha gently in your lap, her tiny hands instantly finding you. “Mission complete,” she mumbled into your shoulder, half-dreaming. “All better.”
You gently kissed her head, your heart full of love and content. “Best doctor in Gotham.”
Bruce’s gaze softened. “No arguments here.” He carefully sat close to you. Allowing you to smoothly cuddle into his side.
You leaned into him as the fire cracked softly, the manor finally still — every tick of the clock a small, steady heartbeat of peace.
