synopsis Robby is known to speak before he thinks sometimes, but when the cost of his words is losing you, he’s rather die (6.6k words)
warningheavy angst, language, hospital stuff, mention of drowning, near death experience, robby is constipated emotionally as always, jack to the rescue, kinda yearning Jack if you squint, inaccurate medical practices I am noooo doctor!
authornotethannk you so much for the request!!! and thank you for your kind words! I had so much fun writing, I think angst is probably my favourite to write over anything especially when Robby is the one yearning. I hope you liked! (Gif credits @emziess :)
Pitt masterlist Last robby fic!
As a resident in the Emergency Department there was a lot you knew.
You knew that preeclampsia effected about eight percent of all pregnant women worldwide. You knew how to intubate and had in fact done so many in your time at PTMC that you were sure you could do it with your eyes closed. You knew that in the bottom draw of Dana's select spot at the nurses station was a pack of nicotine gum hardly used because Dana thought they were a bunch of bull; in spite of the literal doctors orders.
You knew there was a leaky faucet in the women's bathrooms that drove everyone insane when they went in there to steal a moment's peace. You knew the computer in central fourteen was the faultiest one which was why you avoided charting in there all together.
So you knew there must have been a reason why Noelle from insurance was biding her time with your new boyfriend. There must have been a reason why he was grinning big at her like he hadn't with you for days.
“Hey!” said Samira falling at your side at the counter.
You were still too distracted by the two to even tear your gaze away and look at her. “Hey.”
Samira followed your eyeline. “You're staring, you know that?”
You nodded.
Robby rubbed at the side of his face as his cheeks flushed, Noelle shifted her weight onto her other heeled foot- apparently getting herself comfortable.
“Who is that, again?” asked Doctor Mohan.
“Noelle. She's from insurance.”
Samira nodded. “Noelle from insurance. Annnd do we like Noelle, from insurance?”
At that you realised just how transparent your glares might have been.
“Oh, you know,” you mumbled, finally looking back down to your tablet that had grown dark in the absence of movement. “It's our job to like everyone.”
Santos passed by you then, dropping herself down into your favourite chair in exhaustion. “Not everyone.”
“So we're all having a great day, I see,” you commented, sarcastically. However the sardonic tone of your voice was over-saturated with a loud laugh.
Your head practically snapped up to see Noelle laughing at something Robby had said. Even his face was scrunched up at his joke. You watched as Noelle's hand darted to his bicep, playfully hitting him in a way that could only be recognised as flirting.
You watched as Robby looked down to her hand on him and then he looked up, finding you and finding your watchful gaze. Only then did the pink in his cheeks subside and the wrinkles of amusement die.
“Didn't they have a thing before you and him got together?” asked Santos.
You sighed. “Yes, they did, thank you, Trinity.”
“Hey, just trying to be helpful.”
“Save it for the patients,” you said.
Robby took one step in your direction but you'd already dismissed yourself from Santos and Mohan, walking the ward like it was a battle field.
But you could hear your boyfriends heavy boots close behind you.
“Don't do that,” he said, calling after you.
“Do what? See a patient?”
“It's not what you think,” he said.
“Of course it's not,” you said, trying your best to be indifferent.
You knew about Noelle and Robby's history, just as you knew about his and Heathers, and his and the pathologist from upstairs, and the one from ortho. You knew and you understood, heck you'd even been around to joke about with Landon. Robby's famous seven-week itch.
Rumour had it before he finally got to hold your hand and kiss you whenever he liked he'd been trying to nail you down for years, but you weren't sure how much you believed.
It had been nine months, maybe closer to ten since you and Robby had officially started seeing each other. It was the real boyfriend-girlfriend deal where you could call each other at any moments of the day, could get take out together and discuss the boring things together.
Yet, you did none of that.
Robby and you didn't talk.
You fucked- but only each other. You worked on cases together- strictly professional. On the days where you were desperate there was an on-call room Robby could book out and steal time away with you.
But you didn't remember the last time you'd laughed like that with him.
“It's not,” said Robby again.
“Of course it's not.”
Robby sighed, falling closer behind you. “Well, it doesn't really sound like you believe me.”
“I believe you,” you said. “Do I believe Noelle...”
“Oh, c'mon,” Robby chuckled, like the very idea of them was ridiculous. Like the two of you didn't begin where they ended. “You seriously gonna be hung up on that?”
“Don't,” you warn, shaking your head.
You reached for an exam room door, where a sixteen year old boy was complaining of migraines but Robby grabbed your wrist and stirred you away.
“You wanna argue, not here,” he said.
“I don't want to argue.”
Robby led you out to the ambulance bay. Any nurses stealing a couple minutes of peace quickly diverted back in and even ambulances seemed to divert away. He let go of you, standing away and folding his arms over his chest, defensive. “So come on, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You're mad because I was talking to Noelle- about a case, might I add,” he said. There was nothing soft in his tone, nothing that calmed your nerves on edge. He said it all like it was a joke that he already knew the punchline to.
You rubbed at your temple. “You can talk to Noelle about cases, of course you can-”
“- Oh, thank you, glad I have your permission,” he chuckled.
“Can you just not be a dick about this, for once!” you snapped.
Robby's brows rose to his head, almost shocked at your snap at him. He held out his hands. “Okay, I'm not being a dick.”
“You are, and it's like sometimes you don't even realise.”
His hands were worn with the mornings patients and you could see the stress he tried to hide away as he wiped up and down his face.
You took a deep breath. “Robby, if you don't want this to work out all you have to do is say.” You said it, un-sure if you even meant it. Un-sure that you could ever go back to who you were before meeting Robby, let alone sharing in his life. In the small moments grabbing take out together and eating it on his sofa. In the mornings where you both naturally woke up early enough to just admire each other before you had to get to work.
Robby chuckled dryly, hands on his hips. “Oh my god, all of this because I spoke to another woman?”
“Because you laughed with her like you haven't with me for weeks!” you argued.
For once, Robby was silent.
You told yourself after the seven week mark that it would be any day now, that he'd tell you you were better off friends; colleagues. Every day and week it didn't come, every month he got more comfortable in your bed you figured you'd easily get rid of him in your life as easily as you welcomed him.
Now you stood across from him in the early morning light of the ambulance bay knowing if he left you now you'd never get back on your feet again.
“I see the way Noelle looks at you, how the others from upstairs do to,” you begin.
Robby shook his head, something earnest in his gaze. “They're not- they don't-”
“- I know, I know,” you said, cutting him off with a grimace of a smile. “ ”I know you don't love them, Robby. I'm just not sure you love me either.”
As un-cultured as you were with your own relationships you weren't sure when the right time to say I love you was. You knew Santos had said it to Garcia drunk one night and woke up with regret pinning her to the bed. You knew Dana and Benji had said it to each other a week in. You knew you loved Robby before you even kissed him.
Robby looked down to his boots, shaking his head. “That's not fair.”
Your heart pinched. “I know I love you, Robby. But I can't watch all these woman over you and-and wonder.”
“Your insecurities are not my fault!” Robby snapped.
You knew he didn't mean it, or hoped he didn't. You knew in the very small arguments you'd had that he spoke without thinking and came grovelling back.
Maybe it was worse this time because you knew it was the truth. You knew these women- his ex something's- didn't get to see Robby in the early mornings and be the last thing he spoke to at night. You knew Robby wasn't inviting them into his self, but he wasn't pushing them away either.
They'd all been quick, snaps of bands on wrists. You were supposed to be something more.
Maybe you weren't.
Biting on the inside of your cheek, you felt the familiar burning in your chest, rising up to your neck.
“Okay.” You held yourself tight, heading past him and to the doors that were already welcoming you back.
Robby was hot on your heels, quicker even as he pushed himself ahead of you. “No, no, no- hey- wait, no I-I didn't mean that.” His eyes were wide, hands held out in front of you, not quite clasped together, pointing to the sky but pleading none the less.
“We shouldn't talk about this now, Robby-”
“- I- we... honey, please.”
He stood in between you and the doors. Beyond him you saw the chaos of the room, the charts being passed, the labs being reported. The world still turned.
Robby's hands fell to your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. “Let me- jus' let me-let me-”
“Hey! You two!”
Robby didn't jump apart from you, he squeezed your arms tighter as the two of you looked back to Dana who rushed out, wisps of grey hair falling around her. “What is it?”
“There's been a crash down the docks, all hands on deck!”
You thought you knew chaos, having seen all sorts of terror and oddities in the Pitt but the scenes at the dock were nothing like it. A complication with a boat, an explosion- small enough- rattled ferries and had them crashing into one another like terrible scene of dominoes.
Heck, you weren't even sure if the docks were safe to be standing on.
There were fire trucks and ambulances that didn't just respond to PTMC but Presby too. Police were corning off the area, talking to any witnesses but everyone blurred in one as you weaved in and out of them.
You'd been sent as an emergency respondent thanks to how level-headed and sturdy you were in the Pittfest. You still remembered how Robby nominated you as well as Whitaker to go with some from surgery, his eyes dark on you, a trusting nod passed before you were handed a jacket and pushed into an ambulance.
You'd already pulled a sheet over three bodies, one of them too small for your liking.
“Any for me?” asked a first emergency responder, you think his name was Spencer, catching it in the rig you caught a ride in. “We can take two.”
“Yeah!” you yelled and led him away. “This guy, approximately in his thirties, head lack to the right, needs to go to surgery immediately. This woman, late twenties, lost consciousness, possible pelvic bleed but she's stabilised, need's a ultrasound.”
“Got it!”
You'd gone through almost all the gloves you had in your pockets. There was blood seeping into your scrub uniform at your knees. You'd forgone your coat to a little girl who took an ambulance back with her mother, trembling from the cold.
A steady, firm hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“How you holding on, Slugger?”
Your heart soared in relief when you recognised Jack's voice, felt his steady hand and saw his easy smile in the middle of all the pain.
“Jack, thank god. Are you here with your team?” you asked, eying the uniform he was in.
“Yeah, we came to secure the area, doing everything I can to help,” he said, the two of you nudging your way through the people, stepping over the rubble and pools of water or blood. “How you holding up?”
“Lost three,” you told him.
Jack looked down at you, the weight of his gaze always heavy. “And how many you saved, huh? Focus on that number.”
The wind picked up, sending a chill over your bones.
“Hey, where's your jacket?” asked Jack, a frown taking over his features.
You chuckled. “Probably half way to Presby by now, think we've handed off all the traumas PTMC can take.”
Jack tutted and shook his head aside. “I reckon they've got one more in them.”
You didn't know how you and Jack had got so close, somewhere along the lines of hand-offs and covering night shifts you just always gravitated toward each other, working well and saving lives. Every daring procedure you'd taken was with him over your shoulder only for him to go and boast about you to Robby later.
Jack led you to Robby, for that you always had to be thankful.
“Hey! I've got a guy seizing over here!”
With your case in hand the two of you rushed off.
The man seemed middle-aged with no obvious wound to him as you and Jack took either side. The man was at the edge of the docks, the crashing of the waves fighting against you as you worked to stablilse him.
Jack steadied him. “Check if there's any medication on him! It might be a disorder!”
You checked, coming up empty pocketed. You fumbled in your bag and tried your pockets before finding the vial and clean needle. “Pushing diazepam!”
With five cc's in his seizing slowed to dull twitches.
“We need a back board and neck brace,” said Jack, looking around to try and flag down anyone.
Nobody was catching your eyes. This close to the water you were out of the way of most of the chaos.
“Go!” you told Jack. “I'll stay with him, make sure he doesn't sieze again.”
Jack's brows pinched together for a second. “You sure?”
You nodded. Your hands remained on your patient, feeling his tremors and already timing his pulse with your watch. “I've got it, go!”
In hind sight you should have thought about the implications. You'd been grabbed and yelled at and spat at in the ED by less sever patients but once you'd been attacked by a man who just woke up from a seizure, dazed and confused and naming you his enemy.
Robby had never been so close to murder.
It took weeks for the bruises to go down, for your hand to heal properly from the fall and you were on bed rest for a week.
You knew what it meant to be alone with a patient, but sometimes you supposed it couldn't be helped.
The diazepam should have helped- you've seen it help- but soon enough the man started twitching, slow at first, before it started to fit and his whole body moved.
He was a strong man. You weren't.
“It's okay, sir- sir!” you threw your weight against him to hold him still, wonder what you can do to stop him biting down on his tongue with the little equipment you had.
The man was mumbling to himself, thrashing violently.
“C'mon Jack, c'mon-”
It only took a wide sweep of the mans arm to send you hurtling back and crashing into the icy water.
The sky was darkening by the time Robby counted off his thirtieth patient of the day. Twenty-five of them had been from the incident at the docks. Only one he couldn't save, two sent up to the OR.
He counted the patients, counted the hours that ticked by, counted every ambulance that came by not carrying you. He'd expected you back by now, expected to have a little piece of mind with seeing you back in his eyeline.
Robby's heart was being squeezed progressively as the day went on, ever since he'd snapped and said words he never even meant.
Every second, passing from patient to patient and tearing off gloves to replace them with clean ones he checked his phone for any update from you.
Nothing.
You must have been busy down there.
But just three ambulances ago Whitaker returned saying he lost sight of you practically immediately.
So where the hell were you?
“Hey, Dana-” he called, rounding on the nurses station.
She looked as dishevelled as he felt, wisps of hair, dark circles under her eyes.
“Can you get a hold of transport, ask where the hell is my resident.”
“I just got off the phone with them, Robby-” she reached over and placed a hand on his, the one that had been tapping relentlessly. “She's on her way in now.”
Before Robby could even wonder why Dana had to hold his hand to tell him, why her eyes were glassed over and her voice trembled to tell him the doors bust open.
“Robby!” Jack yelled out.
He turned, catching sight of his old friend, the greying hair damp and sticking to his skin. He was half dressed in SWAT gear, his jacket discarded and bits of tinfoil falling from his shoulders. Jack was set over a gurney, hammering down on a chest and going in for CPR the old fashioned way.
“What happened? You fall in-”
Robby got to the other side of the gurney and breath caught in his chest.
“She's been down thirty- thirty-five minutes, I dunno, man,” said Jack as he continued hammering down on your chest.
It was you. Blue in the face and eyes closed, droplets of water at your lashes. Your hair was turning to ice fanned out underneath you. He'd been running his hand through your hair just that morning, had he not. There was a blanket, maybe two, thrown over you but your body only reacted to the thumping Jack delivered on your chest, pinching your nose to breath down your open mouth.
This morning you'd been warm, so warm, with a leg thrown over his hips in attempts to keep him in your bed. And he'd been close, so close to burying himself in your warmth.
He didn't even have to touch you to know you were cold.
“I found her- in the water- pulled her out-” gasped Jack as he continued compressions.
“What do you mean in the water?” asked Robby, surprising himself by how calm he sounded.
“She- she fell, or-or something, I dunno man-”
“You don't know?” he snapped. “Why isn't she bagged?”
“We ran out,” said the paramedic pushing you in.
“You ran out?!”
“Robby- Robby!” Dana's hands were on his chest, keeping him at bay before Robby even knew what he was going to do.
Robby shook her off. “What's open?”
“Trauma two just got cleaned up-”
He grabbed the gurney and pushed you into the room. The weight of Jack on top of you trying to save your life squeaking the wheels against the floor not long wiped from blood. Robby was aware of other voices, of people wondering if that was Jack and was it... no... it couldn't have been.
The doors closed behind a team of people all teaming in, stuttering when they saw you.
“Hook her up!” ordered Robby, ignoring any protocol of gowns and gloves. If he was going to get you back he was going to feel the beat of your heart under his palms. “Jack, move!”
Jack slowly climbed down and Robby jumped up next, quickly taking over compressions.
He remembered kissing down your chest, hiding himself there on mornings he wanted to steal away five minutes, pulling the covers up past the two of you. How he was breaking ribs to keep you alive. “Somebody get a bag on her, now!”
“She's- she's been down a long time,” said Jack, catching his breath.
Robby thumped down on your chest, kidding himself with the dull flutter of your eyelashes, knowing it was only through the force of his hammering down on you. “She's alive.”
“Jesus, Jack, you're as cold as ice,” said Dana from somewhere behind Robby.
“I'm fine,” he dismissed. “Robby, you shouldn't be working on her, brother.”
Others in the room stopped, hearing that.
It was protocol family waited outside, that if family or friends ever came in demanding help the same DNA did not attend. They were too emotionally clouded. To invested to think straight. The last time Robby found himself in this situation: blood pumping in his ears, chest tight was trying to save Jake's girlfriends life.
He'd failed.
The only person to pull him back from that was you.
There'd be nobody if you didn't pull through. He'd be left in that pedes room, never to leave.
“Robby!” Jack tried again.
“Shut up and get me some warm saline!”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, walking around till he was on the other side of your gurney. “No, I'm not going anywhere.”
Robby was still pressing his hands down on your chest when Jack reached over, past the bag they'd finally clamped over on you, and stroked back your hair.
“We're gonna get you through this,” he uttered in an oddly tender moment.
“We need to get a central line in her,” said Matteo.
Jack looked at Robby. “Brother.”
“No.”
“You have to move, we need to get a line in her.”
Robby knew that. He knew so much as a doctor, as chief attending. But he couldn't stop, he physically couldn't bring himself to.
“Robby, man, you gotta let go.”
“I can't... I can't... I can't...” he said. The only thing keeping him sane was the one, two, three, four count in his head, was the cold feeling of your flesh under his hands. “Push three milligrams of epi.”
Jack huffed in frustration, probably the only thing keeping him warm. He marched around your bed to his side. “Robby, so help me god I will drag you out of here if you don't let her go!”
“I can't!” he yelled.
It was selfish but Robby had some how convinced himself he could be selfish with you. He could hold on tighter in the mornings and let you go for the rest of the day. He could watch patients get close to you because he knew it was him who got to kiss you. He could hold back the worst parts of himself to keep you, no matter how much it tore him apart to push you away on the days he wanted to be closest.
No, Robby could never let you go.
If you ever tried to leave him, he'd hold on tighter.
Robby dropped his voice low. “I can't.”
Jack took in a slow breath, a gentle hand on Robby's bicep. “Okay. Okay. You don't have to let her go... but to save her you have to move aside.”
A monitor somewhere in the room beeped.
Slowly, Robby moved from your chest.
The people swarmed you. Someone cut into you, getting a central line in on your other side.
Robby stayed where he was, a hand holding yours tightly as if he could squeeze his own life into yours. He cried- maybe loudly- at the feel of how cold you were.
“What's her temp?” asked Jack.
“Eighty.”
Robby looked up to the monitor reading your vitals. “That's- that's too low.”
“We're getting her warmed up.”
“Get the warm saline.”
“We are.”
Robby leaned over you once the line was placed, brushing back your hair and trying desperately to ignore how cold you were. “You're not dead, you're not,” he said, low for you. Your vitals may have been saying different. “You're not dead.”
“Doctor Robby-”
“Please,” he begged with trembling lips. “Please, don't do this to me.”
A monitor sung low and dry. The classic song of a flatline.
His head jerked up.
Jack caught his stupor and pushed him from you, sending him into Dana's ready hold. “She's going into V-fib!”
Dana held Robby. Physically she wasn't strong enough to hold him back but Robby wasn't strong enough to fight against her. “Robby... Robby, c'mon, let's wait outside.”
He was shaking his head.
“Panels, charge to three hundred!” called out Jack.
Dana had just managed to push him out the doors as he shouted clear!
Through the glass Robby watched your body jerk but not respond.
“Please, please, please,” he uttered. His back hit the nurses station, his knees giving out as he slowly slid and sank to the floor.
“Okay, okay,” muttered Dana, falling with him and holding him there.
The Pitt seemed to stand still at the sight of their boss, white faced and hands trembling, brushing back his hair. Noise travelled quick, that it was you in the bed, ribs breaking from compressions, chest hurting from the shock.
Robby's hands clasped in front of him, his star of David chain clenched in his hands. “Please.... she can't do this to me, please.”
Dana tugged on his body, bringing him in closer. With her sharp gaze she pushed everyone else that dared try and get closer away. “C'mon, Robby, she's strong, you know that. And stubborn like hell, huh?”
Robby nodded along with her words, un-sure if he could believe it.
“Charge again, three hundred, let's go!” called Jack, rubbing the panels before everyone backed up. “Clear!”
There was a small beep, a pick up in the line.
“There! Resume compressions!”
“Doctor Robby!” Santos ran up, her gown like a cape around her. She slowed to a stop in front of the two slumped. “Dana. Dana, is it- is it true, is it?”
Robby looked up, tear stained cheeks red.
“Yeah, kid,” said Dana, sadly.
Santo's jaw trembled before she shook her head in resolute, saying one simple word. No. Then she stormed into the room.
Robby knew you favoured Santos and somewhere along the way Robby had come to look for her when an interesting case came in. He came to favour the way you smiled at Santos when she did things right and Robby searched for any smile he could get from you.
So, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and followed her in- back into the chaos that was your room. The blankets had slipped from your body in the shocks and he desperately tried to hold himself back from fixing them.
“Doctor Abbot-” said a nurse or a intern or someone in the room. “It's been thirty minutes.”
“Hold compressions.”
Robby knew it was to check your pulse but he winced when they paused, when your body didn't respond.
“Still asystole, resume compressions.” Jack caught Robby's gaze.
He'd seen that look on Jack's face. Had seen the hopelessness and the devastation at losing a patient not only in his face but in his own reflection. “Don't-”
Jack lowered his head. “Robby.”
“No, Jack, her temp is not up! She's cold,” he said, walking back around the room. He rolled his shoulders back, pulling on gloves. If nobody else was going to save you he would. “She is not dead! She's not- She's not dead till she's warm and dead! Push another round of epi!”
Matteo jumped at the chance.
Jack stood by Robby's side. “Just... prepare yourself, okay? She's been down a long time. She might not come back from this.”
Robby glanced back at him. “She will.”
“And even if she did-”
Robby cut him off. “She will.”
They couldn't send you up to the OR- there was nothing surgical to do. They couldn't send you to the ICU- you weren't stable. They could work on you for hours, in the pitts of hell.
Robby didn't stop Jesse from compressions but he leant over you, leaning his lips into your forehead. “You'll come back, you have to come back.”
“What's her temp?”
“We're up to eighty-eight.”
“When was our last epi?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Push again.”
At some point Santos pushed her through the crowd, taking compressions from Jesse who she deemed weak-armed.
“Doctor Santos-” said Jack, the only one seeing this for what it was. A disaster. One more emotional person in the room wasn't going to help. If you woke you might just choke on tears from them all.
“I can do it,” she argued, nodding to the night attending. “I can do it.”
Santos was as stubborn as you. If anyone might have been able to beat her heart into beating, it would be her.
Robby leant over you. Robby could feel your skin cold against his lips and he pet back any bit of you he could reach, trying to warm you. He caught Jack's tired gaze, his lifeless stare like he was already grieving you. “I never told her I love her, Jack.”
“Get an APG,” said Santos.
Jack clasped his shoulder. “Tell her now.”
Robby looked back down to you, past the bag pushing your breath, through Santos keeping your heart beat. He kissed your forehead. “I-” he chocked on the words. He couldn't remember a time where he'd said it and meant it like he does now.
He knew Jack was giving him a way out. He knew Jack was giving him the chance to live with no regrets.
But Robby would regret not dying with you if you didn't make it.
There was a silence throughout the room, not even the beating of a monitor keeping him sane.
Robby's hot tears hit your cheeks.
“Temp?”
“Up to neinty.”
“Halt compressions.”
Santos paused.
Nothing.
Then a shrill beeping.
If Robby thought it was life he was going to be souly mistaken.
“She's in V-fib again!”
Robby backed away, tucking his head down to his chest as he watched Jack get the panels, rub the gel on.
“Charge to three hundred- clear!”
Your body jolted again, blankets slipping down your bare body and Robby suddenly wanted to cover you, wanted to pull every tube keeping you alive out and just hold you. Warm or cold. He just wanted to hold you.
“Again, charge. Clear!”
There was a silence. Maybe you were so angry at him you were proving a point by dying. You were a good swimmer. Why didn't you swim?
Everyone in the room paused, seeming to wait for someone to call it.
Jack looked at Robby.
“No,” he said, pushing past everyone.
“Robby-” interjected Jack.
He snatched the panels from Jack. “Charge again, three hundred-”
“-Robby-”
“I said charge again!”
The room was heavy as Jesse moved to do so, charging them up.
“Clear!”
Your body jerked again, violent. Your face remained peaceful, Santos remained off to the side, waiting for orders, waiting to know. Everyone else was looking to each other, silently deciding who would be the one to drag Robby away from your body.
“Wait- there!”
In the middle of them all there sat a pick up in your heart.
The room jumped into discussion about how to carry on, about how to keep the momentum going while Robby pressed his stethoscope into his ears and the other down on you. He listened, catching the beat of your heart.
“She's warm, she's warm and she's alive,” said Jack with a smile.
You were dreaming. It was a sweet sort of thing.
It was a warm body blanketing you and hands holding you. It was lips you knew pressing along you and drawing out pleasure. There were three tiny words spoken into flesh.
It was Robby, his head laid upon your chest in your bed and mumbling the words, tracing every letter over your ribs. When you reached for his hair, when you tried to say the words again you coughed up water instead. You clawed at your throat. You chocked in panic-
Then there was a beeping bringing you out of sweet dreams.
“Hey, hey. Honey? Honey, can you look at me?” a warm hand was running over your head, pushing back your hair. “Open your eyes.”
You tried to. They felt heavy. Sleep heavy.
But someone was coaxing you through it, holding your hand and brushing back your hair.
“Yeah, there we go... there we go, hey.”
The lights were bright, almost painfully so as they blared in your eyes. It took you a couple blinks to get them right but when you did there was a dark shadow looming over you, blocking out the lights.
There was the ragged pull of a beard and the slope of a well known nose.
You breathed in and smelt burnt coffee and hand sanitiser. “Robby?”
He smiled, crows feet at his eyes. “Hey, honey.”
You pushed up your arm, finding it oddly weak like it had been weighted down. You found an IV down in your arm. The white lights... the white walls and the IV all made slow sense.
“Wh-what?”
“Easy, easy.” Robby grabbed at your arms, holding you. He helped you sit up, reaching over and plumping your pillow and holding you there.
Only when you heard the monitor calming down and felt the pain lessen did Robby let you go, perching close on the bed next to you and grabbing your hand again.
“What happened?” you asked, finding your throat parched.
Robby sighed, pulling your hand into your lap. “There was an accident at the docks. You went with the responders to help. Your patient had a seizure and...”
You remembered the dock, the wind cold and the yells. You remembered Jack was there and the patient, he was seizing. “What happened to him?” you asked.
Robby stared at you, a small shake in his head as his brows pinched together.
“The seizing, the patient.”
There was a small look of disbelief, a soft smile creasing his chapped lips.
“What?”
His smile turned sharp with affection as he looked down. Your hand, engulfed in his, was pressed to his lips. He stayed like that as the scenes played in his head and the smile slowly started to fall. “You were brought in, your body temp was eighty. Jack was- was doing compressions. We- we had to shock you, so much, you don't- ” Robby sighed out a shaky breath. “You don't know what it was like.”
The dock, the bodies, Jack. The bite of cold water like a thousand daggers piercing into your skin. You had gasped for breath, limbs flailing.
It had felt like dying.
“Oh.”
You rubbed at your chest, pain blooming.
“You might be a bit burnt, from the shocks. And we were- we did compressions for a while so you broke a rib,” he said, chocking down a cry.
You squeezed his hand. “We?”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest. His lips were pursed.
You'd seen Robby cry before, in shades of red face and clenched palms and always trying to hide it away. But you'd never seen him try to hide away as much as he was now. Your hand escaped his hold, caressing down his cheek.
“Robby.... hey....”
His lips puckered to your palm, pressing a kiss there. His palm was large as he held your hand up to his cheek.
“Hey,” you cooed.
Robby glanced up at you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“No, no it's not, it's not okay,” Robby took a shaky breath and scooted closer. His arm came over you, bracing himself on the bed. “You almost died.”
You searched his eyes but only found pain and defeat. He looked tired. Really tired. “But I didn't.”
“That's not the point,” he said. He brushed back strands of your hair, kept petting it down in a way you guessed comforted him more. “Jack was doing compressions for almost an hour. Your temp was down the whole time. We shocked you four times. Four.”
Robby's voice broke.
“You almost died and the last thing we did was argue.”
You didn't know what to say to that. The words I'm sorry were already rising and like he sensed it, Robby gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah... probably wasn't the best timing.”
“We're never arguing again, you understand?”
You smirked, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You could feel the race of his pulse. “Give us a week.”
“No,” said Robby. “Never.”
Something sour tasted it your mouth.
“Because we- are we, broken up?”
“No. No. We are not,” he said sternly.
You let out a breath. “Good. Good. I'd have hated to wake up from near death to that.”
“I should have listened to you,” he uttered. “Noelle is nothing, everyone else is nothing, nobody means anything to me, only you. Only ever you. And I am never letting you go again, ever.” He kissed your hand again.
You smiled at him. “What if I need to pee?”
“You can hold my hand.”
“And on mornings where I have really bad morning breath?” you teased.
“That doesn't happen, you know that,” Robby smiled.
Without any arguments left you gave up, sinking into your sheets with a shiver.
Robby frowned. “Are you cold?” he was up at once, pulling at the covers over you and the blankets. He was all but tucking you in as you laid there, taking it.
“Robby.”
“Yeah?” he hummed.
You tugged at his arm, pulling him down.
“What are you- what are you doing?” he chuckled, lightly.
“I'm cold, you're a human furnace, hold me.”
Robby was on the verge of complaining even as you pulled him down on the bed. He grunted at the squeak of the bed, was careful of the monitors assessing you. He squeezed in, pulling the rail back up as you curled up to the side to give him space. “These beds are not made for two.”
“You'll have to get onto the attending about that,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Yeah, first thing tomorrow.”
“Meh, I can persuade him, if you like.”
Robby smirked. “He'll do whatever you say.”
His arm slung over your shoulder and rested there, holding your body into him till your head was on his chest and you could feel the beat of his heart. It was just like you dream. Of comfort and warmth.
Robby said your name in a whisper.
You looked up at him to see his eyes screwed shut before releasing them.
“I...”
You watched the move of his lips. “Robby, you don't have to-”
“No, I want to,” he said. Robby's hand was careful as he cupped your face.
“You don't have to say it just because of what happened.”
“I'm not, believe me, I'm not,” he said. “I love you.”
It was the words you wanted to hear, the words you needed to know, the very thing to finish off your dream.
“Robby-” you interjected.
“I love you,” he smiled, grinning wide at you. “I've said it now, I don't think you'll get me to shut up.” There was fake remorse in his voice, a feigned sort of sorry.
“I can think of a few ways.”
Robby's lips were warm and giving as you puckered your up to his, kissing him slow. If you lost your breath kissing him it'd be a hell of a way to go.
Robby smiled against your lips. “That might work.”
His body half rolled onto yours, the bed creaking in protest. Only when your monitor warned of you losing breath did he pull away and check the machine.
“Get some rest, Robby, you look like you need it,” you said, kissing his cheek slow.
There was fight of protest in him that quickly gave up.
Robby looked up at you, wide eyed. “Can I stay?”
You nodded.
“I love you.”
The words he'd given you, the words he'd never forget to say. The words he'd spoken and would never take back.
content warning: smut - p in v, pwnp, unprotected sex, use of sex toys (vibrator), creampie, use of petnames (baby, sweetheart), pussy pronouns, dom!jack & sub!reader
a/n: this is my first request for my prompts challenge! not proofread, lmk if there’s any mistakes i need to fix! love u all
masterlist
20 prompts for 100
your whimpers were muffled by the pillow as jack pounded into you from behind, his thumb rubbing roughly at your clit as his hips snap forward with a deep groan.
“f- fuck, baby. you look so hot.” he mumbled, his large hand splaying out across your lower back. you moaned as you fought to keep your ass up in the air, legs growing more tired by the second.
jack noticed the tremble in your thighs, slowing down with a grunt. “what? too much?” he asked gently, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder.
“mhm. no.” you shook your head. “just tired.”
jack hummed before pulling out of you completely, leaving your pussy to clench around nothing in desperation. “i have an idea. lie still.” he told you, giving your hip a reassuring squeeze.
you sighed in content as you relaxed your body and waited for your boyfriend to return.
you heard the sound of a drawer opening and some rummaging before jack found what he was looking for.
the familiar sound of a soft buzz coming to life made you immediately shoot up from your place. your face flushed a deep red when you saw what was in his hands.
“jack! what the fuck!” you spat, reaching to grab it from him.
“ah ah, not so fast, baby. i said to lie still.” jack tutted as he guided you back down by your shoulder, switching off the toy as he did so.
“now. do you wanna tell me what this is? i found it while looking for my card the other day.” he asked slowly, watching for your reaction as he dipped a finger between your thighs to toy with your still soaked cunt.
“it’s nothing.” you mumbled in embarrassment, looking anywhere but jack and your toy that now looked small in his hands.
“this is nothing?” he raised an eyebrow in suspicion before spreading your thighs. “why do you even have this in the first place? do i not satisfy you?” jack asked, his tone a mix of uncertainty and teasing.
“no! that’s not it! you- you do more than satisfy me! i just- i got it for when you’re working late.” you scrambled to reassure him, reaching to hold his hand.
“i can’t do it myself.” you admitted, quieter now. “i can’t make myself feel as good as you make me. so i bought that.”
jack couldn’t hide the grin that graced his face. “how about i make you feel extra good, huh? i wanna try. see what you do when i’m not here.”
a small whine left your lips as you watched jack pick up the vibrator again and turn it on. you let your thighs fall further apart, helping jack to settle between your legs again.
“she’s even wetter than before.” jack cooed as he spread your folds, the slick dripping onto your thighs.
he pressed the toy to your clit, watching in awe when you immediately moaned and jerked up towards his. “j- jack, fuck.”
he dipped down to press a hot kiss to your mouth before lining up with you and pressing in again, sliding in smoothly from how soaked your pussy was.
you moaned into his mouth before reaching to claw at his back. the two sensations from your clit and getting filled by jacks thick cock was overwhelming you couldn’t even think straight.
“i feel her squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. that feel good?” he groaned into your ear, keeping the vibrator firm against your throbbing clit.
“j- jackie, ‘m gonna- oh my god-“ you gasped, thighs clenching around him as your lower half felt like it was going to burn from the amount of stimulation.
jack kept his deep, steady rhythm as you came around him hard, moaning louder than he’d ever heard from you before.
it wasn’t long before he was thrusting roughly into you, spilling his load the deepest he could possibly get it.
the feeling quickly became too much, your hands reaching to pull the toy away from your now oversensitive clit. “‘s too much, p- please-“ you whimpered, pleading jack with your hazy, blissed out eyes.
he relented and turned the toy off quickly, tossing it somewhere on the bed you couldn’t see. jack pulled out his softening cock with a grunt, moving to cradle you in his large arms.
“i’ve never seen you cum that hard before, sweetheart. maybe we’ll have to do that again..” he mused before pressing a tender kiss to your cheek.
.ᐟ.ᐟ summary. after years of cruelty and humiliation by the hands of your brother aerion, you return believing you have finally outgrown his influence, only to find the darkest version of him wrapped in gentleness. 2.3k
warnings. mdni ︵ heavy targcest ︵ aerion brightflame ︵ smut ︵ dubcon ︵ porn with plot ︵ heavy dacryphilia ︵ manipulation ︵ power imbalance ︵ physical and verbal abuse ︵ mentions of forced breeding ︵ coercion ︵ love-bombing ︵ reader is a crybaby ︵ fingering ︵ dirty talking ︵ mentions of tears as lube.
notes. enjoy. not in my best moment but certainly trying my best.
Your life had been hell for as long as you could remember.
You never suffered the trivial worries of other girls of your short age — the septa’s disapproving glances over a crooked stitch, debates about which color best suited your features, or gossip about which prince might favor which lady.
No. Your fate had been shackled to your elder brother, Aerion. Not in marriage, but in his unrelenting obsession with tormenting you. He sought your terror in every hall, every shadowed corner of the castle. He craved the way your eyes would glisten, that telltale shine before the first tears spilled down your soft cheeks.
As if your tears were his only true sustenance.
With others, he was the picture of a calm, pleasant boy — listening intently to your elder brother Daeron’s stories, fishing at his side with easy laughter. He could be good.
Except with you.
The confusion of why he had chosen you, of what you had done to deserve his hatred, cut almost as deeply as his cruelty itself. Hair-pulling, pinching bruises hidden beneath your sleeves, the sudden isolation as the other ladies slowly turned their backs on you after speaking with him. You never learned what lies he whispered, only that they were effective.
Yet among all the humiliations, one memory had burned itself into your mind like a brand:
“One day, when we are older, I will make you my wife,” he had promised, his intense violet eyes fixed on your face, hungry for the first sign of tears. “I will plant the strongest dragon in your womb, even if it has to claw its way out with teeth and talons, tearing you apart from the inside. You were made for it, sweet sister.”
He was cruel, and terrifyingly clever in his torments. No one in the castle was blind, yet somehow no one seemed to notice the depth of your fear. And you dared not tell your father, Maekar, because Aerion had made sure you understood the consequences.
“If you tell anyone, little bird,” he had whispered once, his voice sickeningly sweet, “I’ll know. And you know how unhappy that would make me… don’t you?”
In a final act of desperation, you had broken. You confessed everything to your father between heaving, inconsolable sobs. He believed you — of course he did. No girl wept the way you wept without reason, so he helped you in secret.
You were sent to the Citadel of Oldtown under the guise of visiting your brother Aemon. A convenient excuse.
Aerion had not been fooled. Rage had poisoned his blood as he watched you slip from his grasp. But he waited. He was not a patient man, yet for you — his sweet, tearful little bird — he would learn.
What he didn’t know was that in those long years away, you had grown stronger. The septas in Oldtown had taught you what your own never could: temperance, silence as armor, and the quiet power of a steady mind. His words were no longer daggers — merely the ravings of a sick boy.
You had never felt more ready to face him.
Now a woman grown, you were returning home. And this time, you would not break. Or so you thought.
────୨ৎ────
You returned at dawn, accompanied only by the steady rhythm of hooves, the song of early birds, and the crunch of carriage wheels over the stony path. The castle was still quiet; few had come to greet you. Your arrival had been kept deliberately discreet.
Maekar received you at the gates with a rare, soft smile. He had missed his sweet girl — even if you were now a woman grown. He did not regret sending you away from the grasp of his twisted son. Aerion, no doubt, was still out in the training yard, swinging steel in the cool morning air. He had not been told of your return.
Would he even recognize you?
Your body had blossomed with soft, feminine curves. Your posture was straighter, more regal, and your once fearful eyes now held the sharp violet intelligence the septas had carefully cultivated. You looked every inch the princess you were meant to be.
That day you wandered the castle gardens, then the long halls. Servants stared openly at your elegant figure, stunned by the transformation. You had never carried yourself with such quiet grace.
Yet as your fingers brushed the ornate handle of your chamber doors, a strange chill crawled down your spine. A warning. You ignored it, turned the knob, and stepped inside.
Everything was exactly as you remembered — until your gaze landed on the bed.
Aerion rose swiftly from where he had been sitting on your mattress. He turned to face you, visibly startled by the intrusion into what had clearly become his private sanctuary in your absence.
Silence blanketed the room as he stared at you like a vision, like something holy.
“Sister,” he breathed, the word almost reverent.
His violet eyes traced over you slowly, hungrily, drinking in every changed detail. You were still his little bird, but the fledgling had grown magnificent wings.
You held his gaze without flinching. “Brother.”
His jaw tightened. Even your voice had changed — steady, no longer trembling. For a moment his stare burned across your skin, intense enough to feel like a physical touch. You braced yourself for the first cruel remark...
But his voice came soft.
“I missed you.”
Your hands, folded gracefully over your belly, clenched hard. You had expected mockery, venom, anything but this. Your lips parted and closed again. One sentence, and already your hard-earned armor felt paper-thin.
What's the proper reaction to a caress that should've been a blow?
“You’ve grown beautiful,” he continued, stepping around the bed with slow, deliberate care. “Breathtaking.”
Your heart twisted painfully. His tone was so gentle it hurt.
“What?” you whispered shakily, betraying yourself.
He took another step closer and you retreated one.
“I’ve come here from time to time,” he murmured, “when your absence became… unbearable.”
He took another step and your back hit the door. Your hands curled into fists, wrinkling the fine fabric of your dress. Your vision blurred, and your delicate fingers felt wet when you brushed your cheek. You didn't even know you started crying until now.
You turned your face away, desperate to hide the tears already spilling down your cheeks. Damn the Seven. Damn your own weakness.
A firm yet gentle hand caught your wrist, stopping your escape. When you looked back at him, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the violet, dark with something dangerous.
“Little sister,” he soothed, voice dripping with false comfort that didn’t match the hunger in his eyes. “Why are you crying so easily? Did you miss me that much?”
A broken sob slipped from your lips. Heat flooded your cheeks as more tears fell. Aerion leaned in, pressing his mouth to your wet skin, licking the tears from your skin with a soft, pleased sigh.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your flesh. “Let them fall for me.”
His hands settled possessively on your hips as he kissed away every tear, tracing down a path over your wet skin until he reached your lips. The kiss tasted of salt and growing desperation. His tongue claimed your mouth with increasing hunger, devouring every shaky breath and whimper.
Even after all these years apart, you were still his favorite crybaby.
“You confuse me,” you protested weakly against his lips, voice trembling. “You’re playing with my mind again.”
“You confuse yourself, little bird. You always have.” He smiled against your mouth, arrogant and satisfied, though you couldn't see it. “You always think the worst of me.”
“Stop. I’m... I'm tired from the journey. I need to rest,” you said sharply, finally pushing him away with the little dignity you had left. His closeness was doing something to your body and mind. Something you'd rather not think of. “Please.”
Aerion let you go, but not before offering a crooked smile that showed the sharp edge of his teeth.
“Rest well then, sweet sister.” His voice was velvet, and his steps, casual. Like he wasn't drinking your tears and devouring your salty tongue seconds ago. “Pleasant dreams.”
You finally exhaled. But rest wouldn't come easy. You kept thinking about his hands on your hips and his lips on yours, and guilt crawled up your neck, leaving you breathless. Your damned body wanted to feel him again, even if it meant spilling your tears one more time.
────୨ৎ────
Several days passed with torturous slowness.
The old feeling of being unsafe in your own home had returned, gnawing at you just as it had when you were a little girl. Only now there was no violence, no insults — and somehow, that made it worse.
Aerion had become attentive. Almost chivalrous.
During feasts, his hand no longer pinched your thigh under the table to make you stammer and flinch in front of potential suitors. Instead, it rested there with firm, possessive weight — a silent reminder of his presence. A claim.
When you walked through the halls, he no longer shoved you or made you stumble. He offered his arm with unexpected gentleness and escorted you to your chambers like a true knight. The change was so jarring that even Maekar, in his confusion, had begun to wonder if you had exaggerated everything.
You weren’t crazy.
Why was this happening?
Aerion had always been twisted, but this new version of him terrified you more than his cruelty ever had. Did he even remember the insults? The threats? The promise he had made with that hungry look in his eyes — that one day he would make you his wife and force a dragon into your womb?
If his behavior could change so drastically, perhaps all those memories had faded for him. Perhaps they had never mattered as much as you thought.
Or perhaps… it had all been in your head. Perhaps he had only been a little rough, and your childish mind had turned it into something monstrous. Maybe. Maybe...
That night, the flames in the hearth cast a comforting warmth through your chambers. You had changed into your nightgown and were kneeling on the bed, softly reciting passages from The Seven-Pointed Star, just as the septas had taught you to do when your mind felt overwhelmed.
You didn’t hear Aerion slip into your room like a shadow. He closed the door behind him with barely a sound.
His hand settled on your shoulder, pulling you from your prayers. His low voice sent a shiver down your spine.
“What are you whispering, sweet sister? Prayers?” he murmured, his warm breath brushing the nape of your neck. He was right behind you on the bed.
Your body went rigid, frozen like a fawn before the hunter.
“Just… passages from a book,” you answered quietly. You both knew he didn’t care about the answer.
His hand slid slowly down your arm as his lips replaced it, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss against your warm skin. His fingers traced lower, over your waist, his thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your nightgown.
“Recite them for me,” he whispered, his voice dark with amusement. “Tell me everything they taught you out there. I bet it was all nonsense. Nothing has changed, has it?”
You found yourself nodding before you could stop, as if your body obeyed him on instinct.
“I knew it,” he growled softly against your skin.
His mouth moved hungrily along your shoulder and neck, kissing and licking, drawing a startled gasp from your lips that quickly melted into soft, helpless sighs. Your back arched as you pressed against his chest, and you could feel something hard poking your lower back with every small movement.
His hand slipped between your thighs, pushing the silk of your nightgown aside. His fingers brushed over your slick folds and found your swollen little bud before teasing your entrance.
“Why are you doing this to me?” you asked shakily, your voice breaking as two long fingers pushed inside you.
“Doing what?” he teased against your ear, voice mocking and low. “Making you feel good?”
Your cheeks burned. Your eyes grew glassy as his fingers curled inside you, stroking that sweet spot with devastating precision. A broken moan escaped your lips, your hips moving instinctively to meet his hand.
“Are you going to cry for me again?” he asked, voice thick with arousal. “If I fuck you with my fingers, little bird?”
He thrust his fingers deeper into your cunt, pumping them in and out with a wet, obscene rhythm. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. Your hips rocked shamelessly against his hand as pleasure overwhelmed you.
“That’s it… just like that,” he groaned. “Gods, I’d love to see the septas’ faces if they saw you riding my fingers like a common whore.”
A shaky sob tore from your throat as the first tear slid down your cheek — not from fear, but from your own shameful pleasure and weakness.
“Don’t… don’t say that,” you whimpered pathetically, your pussy clenched around his fingers. “They did what they could.”
“And it was nothing,” he replied, biting back a darker urge. He wanted to flip you over, smear his cock with your tears, and fuck you until the only name you could remember was his. But not yet.
He doubled his efforts, fucking you harder with his fingers until your hips lifted off the bed with every thrust. You had to brace yourself against the sheets to keep from collapsing.
“Sister,” he whispered against your ear, voice rough with barely contained hunger, “my promise still stands. I’m going to make you my wife. I haven't forgotten.”
And in that moment, you finally understood the truth. You had never been crazy.
you usually get along so well. but today, you just can’t seem to see eye to eye.
dr jack abbot x female nurse!reader
warnings - smut. cursing. jack in a bad mood is a warning in itself.
word count - like 2k at most?? i’ll count it later <3
authors note - ah yes, the one thing that can always drag me back to writing… a sexy old man. obsessed with everything about jack abbot. marry me, dr handsome.
masterlist. inbox. part two.
You’ve barely stepped behind the nurses station when a man’s voice hits your ears.
“Were you late?”
“What?”
“Did you just get here? Late?”
You look at him incredulously, confusion written all over your face.
“I hit bad traffic and then got bombarded with questions from a patient the minute I walked into the building. But no, technically, I was right on time.”
He’s staring at you pointedly, head cocked to the side.
“Is this really how you wanna start the night off, Jack?”
“Just making sure I hold you to the same standards as everybody else.”
“What?”
Now it’s your turn to glare at him. His black scrubs are hugging his biceps just right, hair all salt and pepper and tousled as always, huge hands gripping the countertop. He looks so good you can barely stand the sight of him.
“Where has this come from? Did someone say something about me being treated differently?”
“It was just a joke from someone on the day shift, about you being my favourite.”
“From who?”
“That’s not important.”
“Oh, so let me guess… Langdon?”
“I said-”
“That’s a yes, then.”
“Listen, I just want to ensure that I treat all of the nurses here in the same way. Understood?”
“Frank’s just jealous because I said no when he asked me out years ago, you know.”
“He what?”
Got him.
“We have work to do, Dr Abbot. This,” you push the coffee next to yours towards him, “is for you. If I’d have known you were gonna be in such a bad mood tonight, I’d have given it to Frank on my way in instead.”
You walk away before he can answer, leaving him stood with his tail somewhat between his legs. Somewhat.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
You bang heads all night long.
“Can you pass me that?”
He’s gesturing vaguely in your direction, so you take an educated guess and hand him a thermometer.
“The blood pressure cuff,” he half snaps, turning his head sharply towards you.
“My apologies,” you feign sarcastically. “Apparently my goddamn mind reading skills aren’t working tonight.”
You practically chuck the cuff at him, both of you glaring at each other across the patient.
“Thanks.”
“Oh, so you do know how to use your manners, Dr Abbot.”
“Watch it.”
You tilt your head to glance at him as he rips the velcro apart with slightly more force than necessary.
“We’ll get a nurse to check on you in twenty minutes, Mr Smith. Until then, just wait for these meds to kick in.”
“Thanks, Doc,” the man replies, clearly baffled by the hostility.
You’re out of the room as quickly as you can move, off to update his chart on the computer. Just as you sit down on the wheelie chair, someone spins it aggressively in the wrong direction.
“You need to watch your attitude.”
“Me? I need to watch my attitude? Hilarious, really.”
“Just keep it in check around the patients.”
“You were rude to me and then expected me to read your fucking mind, Jack. I’m only picking up what you’re putting down - and what you’re putting down is a bad attitude towards me for no apparent reason.”
“I didn’t start this.”
“Yes, you did.”
You spin your chair back around determinedly, typing on the keyboard with excessive force. Jack huffs loudly before walking away, tension thick across the room.
“The fuck is going on with them?” you hear Ellis ask Shen.
“I’ve got no idea. They’re usually the best of buddies - they were joined at the hip last week.”
You smash the enter button and stand up, stalking off to find a patient that needs you.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
There’s finally a moment of quiet in the emergency room, halfway into your shift. Well, a moment quiet enough that you can run to get some water and a quick snack. You jog towards the break room to find Jack slamming his locker door shut, shaking the entire cabinet.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He clearly didn’t know you were there, an accidental audience member to his little outburst.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Don’t call me a liar.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, then.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Oh yeah? What’s this then? What’s been happening all goddamn night?”
“I’m tired-”
“We’re all fucking tired, Jack! You don’t think I’m exhausted too? You don’t think my muscles are so tense right now that you could bounce a golf ball off them? I’m this close to pulling my hair out, but you don’t see me taking it out on everyone else.”
“It’s not everyone else.”
“No, you’re right. It’s just me. I’m the lucky punching bag tonight. Anything else you wanna throw at me, Jack? Any other insults you wanna send my way while we’re here?”
“Keep your fucking voice down.”
“Is this because of what Frank said, or were you in a bad mood before you came in? Because if this is about a stupid joke made by a jealous asshole, you really need to evaluate things, Dr Abbot.”
Something about you using his professional name instead of the usual sweet Jack he gets from you has him seeing red, anger bubbling up and over. He grabs your wrist before you can register what’s happening, shoving you into one of the unused bunk rooms and locking the door behind him.
“Will you shut the fuck up? I can’t think.”
He practically spits it at you, crowding you against the wall. His body cages you in, hands gripping at your hips to keep you pinned.
You reach up to put your palms on his chest, steadying the two of you. The feeling of your hands on him has him calming down, seeing you clearly for the first time tonight.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
An apology is the last thing you were expecting from the stubborn old man.
“I’m stressed and tired and… the comment from Langdon got under my skin.”
“So you took it out on me?”
“Not on purpose. It’s just… every time I look at you, I think about what he said. And then that got misplaced into frustration towards you.”
“It doesn’t matter, you know. What he said. It isn’t true.”
“It is.”
He’s whispering, speaking so lowly you wouldn’t be able to hear if you weren’t practically forehead to forehead with him. You’re realising now just how close you are, bodies pressed together against the wall as if this isn’t the most intimate conversation you’ve ever had.
“What?”
“I treat you like my favourite because you are my favourite.”
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
You drop your head forward so it’s resting against his sternum, your adrenaline crashing suddenly. Jack cradles the back of your head with one hand, the other pulling you closer by the small of your back.
“I don’t want people thinking I’m giving you special treatment,” he murmurs into your hair. “You are a damn good nurse, and I don’t want your reputation to be compromised because everyone thinks I’m playing favourites.”
“And you were jealous,” you tease, muttering into the cotton of his undershirt.
“And I was a tiny bit jealous,” he admits through gritted teeth, chuckling.
“I didn’t even go out with him. He’s Langdon.”
“I know. I think the stress and tiredness and the atmosphere of this place all got on top of me, and the Langdon thing is what my brain got stuck on.”
“It happens. This ER will drive you crazy if you let it.”
“Tell me about it, Sunshine.”
“Sunshine,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at his face. “Haven’t heard that today.”
“No?”
“Nope. Think you were a minute or two away from calling me a bitch a few hours ago.”
“I would never,” he replies quickly, catching your eyes.
You can’t fight the smile that breaks out. He mirrors you immediately, both of you grinning like idiots.
“So we’re good?”
“We’re good, sweetheart. I’m sorry again. I shouldn’t have come down so hard on you.”
“Think we both need some stress relief,” you laugh. “A stiff drink, exercise, weed-”
“A good orgasm.”
You go silent, Jack shocking you into quiet. You bite your bottom lip to try and stop yourself from saying all the inappropriate things you want to say, praying that they don’t slip out.
“Yeah,” you reply slowly. “That too.”
“You gonna let me relieve a little of your stress, honey? Want me to take the edge off?”
His voice has dropped an octave or two, the tone all raspy and ragged. He’s speaking all honeyed into your ear, head dipped so you can hear him perfectly. It’s gone from zero to a hundred faster than you can think, months of subtle foreplay leading up to this one moment.
“Please,” is all you can choke out. “Please, Jack.”
“There we go,” he smirks. “Back to our regularly scheduled programming, hmm?”
“I didn’t like calling you Dr Abbot today. Felt weird.”
“Good. I didn’t like it either.”
He looks at you for a moment too long before leaning forward, capturing your lips with more passion than you’ve ever experienced. You sink into him, into the way he takes the lead so easily. You’re along for the ride, perfectly content to follow his rhythm as he slips his tongue into your mouth cheekily.
“They’re gonna notice we’re gone,” you pant when he pulls away for a breath. “Well, that you’re gone.”
“Better make this quick then,” he winks, leaning in to press open mouthed kisses to your neck as his hands slip beneath your scrubs to palm your ass.
You let your forehead hit his shoulder, his strong arms keeping you upright. You’re melting into his hold, losing sense of all time and space the more he touches you.
“I didn’t want this to be so rushed, but I’ll take what I can get for now,” he murmurs into the space underneath your ear.
“This?”
“Us. For the first time.”
“You’ve thought about this?”
“Honey.”
He looks at you in disbelief, his palms still smoothing their way over any skin of yours he can reach.
“What?”
“You are all I think about every time I get off. Especially if we’ve worked a shift together that night - it’s like I see you on the inside of my goddamn eyelids.”
“You think about me?” your tone has slipped from curious to coy, the power you have over him suddenly becoming apparent. “Tell me what you think about.”
“Think about bending you over the nurses station,” he hums, fingers slipping into your underwear, “in front of everyone, so they all know you’re mine.”
You’re both still fully dressed, which is somehow making everything sexier. He groans when he feels how wet you are, shaking his head with a chuckle.
“And?”
“And I think about pulling you into the break room and eating you out on the table,” he murmurs as he slips a finger inside, curling it towards you immediately with practised precision. “Tasting you on my lips hours later, talking to patients as if I’m not counting down the seconds until I can sit you on my face again.”
“What else?” you prompt, voice getting less assured by the minute.
“The first thing I do when I get home after a shift is shower, and I always imagine you there with me,” he adds a second finger, working you up with a steady pace. “Dripping, soap all over your tits, looking like some sort of fuckin’ wet dream… and all for me.”
Your nails are digging into his biceps, gripping onto him for dear life. He’s holding you by the back of your neck, pressing your face into his chest to keep you from making too much noise.
“I wanna hear those pretty fucking sounds later, yeah? Gonna take you home and you can be as loud as you want. No holding back on me.”
You nod frantically, knees buckling as you feel your orgasm building quicker than you thought possible. He’s playing you like an instrument, pressing all the right buttons, and you’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t so hot.
“Fuck, Jack.”
“Oh, you sound so pretty saying my name like that. Look even prettier falling apart on my fingers.”
You take a gasping breath in, head all fuzzy and nerves set ablaze.
“Jack-”
“I know, honey. I know. Atta girl, let it happen, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”
That’s all it takes. You’re coming with no warning, gushing all over his fingers that never seize their movements. He fucks you right though it, still murmuring pure filth into your ear as you shake and shiver in his strong grip.
“Perfect girl, there we go. That feel good, yeah? Hmm? Was that what you needed? You gonna stop being a brat now, and behave for me like you usually do?”
His tone is still dark, voice still raspy and an octave lower than usual. Whatever hold he has on you, you don’t mind in the slightest.
“Fuck, I wish I could suck your cock right now.”
Jack chokes on the air, slightly taken aback by the first thing you’ve said in five minutes.
“Filthy fucking girl,” he grins when he recovers from the shock. “You want to? When we get home?”
You’re nodding eagerly, desperate to do whatever it takes to please him.
“I’ll tell you what… get through the rest of this shift on your best behaviour, and you can make me come as your reward. I’ll take you home with me, take care of you the way you deserve, alright?”
“Sounds perfect,” you grin, tilting your head up to press a lingering kiss to his lips. “Anything for you, Dr Abbot.”
“Watch it,” he winks as he slaps your ass. “Don’t think I won’t punish you for being a brat.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you tease, grabbing his wrist and putting his fingers that were just inside you into your mouth.
You suck with intention, swirling your tongue around the digits to show him exactly what awaits him in the future.
“Brat,” he says as he pushes down on your tongue, chuckling when you gag. “You look pretty like this.”
You’re about to reply when a man’s voice cuts through the air, shouting from the other side of the door.
“Abbot? You there?” then, when there’s no reply, “Where the fuck is he?”
Jack shoots you a look before kissing you on the forehead gently.
“We need to go,” he mouths.
You nod, smoothing out his scrubs to ensure you don’t arouse suspicion.
“You go first. I’ll wait a few minutes and come in from the other direction.”
He moves towards the door before he turns around to gaze at you intently.
“Wait for me, after your shift. I mean it. I’ll take you home with me.”
“Yessir.”
He gives you a warning look before chuckling to himself as he exits, shaking his head.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
“Sunshine, can you pass me that please?”
You chuck him the thermometer, an educated guess based on the situation.
“Perfect, thanks. You’re a mind reader.”
You laugh, all silvery and melodic, the sound bouncing off all of the metal in the room. He can’t help but grin, trying to wipe the smile off his face but not succeeding.
“Well, they’ve made up,” Ellis says to Shen from where they’re standing at the nurses station watching.
“Apparently so. They must have talked it out.”
“Oh yeah,” she says sarcastically. “I’m sure that’s exactly what they did.”
Summary: Everyone at Venturer knows two things for certain.
Declan O’Hara hates losing control.
And Y/N has been hopelessly in love with him for far too long.
Unfortunately for them, everyone else seems to know that too.
Between late-night meetings, whiskey-fuelled dinners, chaotic gatherings at Rupert Campbell-Black’s house and endless unresolved tension, the line between friendship and something far more dangerous starts to blur. Declan refuses to admit what he feels — until jealousy, sharp words and one disastrous dinner party finally break the fragile balance between them.
Now forced to face everything they’ve avoided for years, both must decide whether they’re brave enough to ruin their friendship for something real.
Or whether they already have.
Warnings: angst, miscommunication, jealousy, emotional repression, friends to lovers, slow burn, alcohol consumption, sexual content, explicit language.
a/n: let’s just say my obsession with Declan O’Hara is officially back and I’m feeling deeply delusional about it 😭 keep in mind not everything is exactly like the books/show. I took some creative liberties while writing this. also, Declan is divorced in this story.
don't forget, all characters belong to Jilly Cooper — I'm simply borrowing them, bending them slightly to my own delusions, and returning them (mostly) unharmed. Y/N is yours, as always.
english isn’t my first language, so if you spot any mistakes feel free to tell me nicely <3 please be kind and leave your thoughts!! I’d genuinely love to hear them. ily bye <3
Summary: You spent months trying to make one man notice you. You kept looking at Robby. Jack kept looking at you. By morning, only one of them would still be on your mind...
Every time you close your eyes
And feel his lips, you're feelin' mine...
You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you...
Yes, this is based on lyrics from Taste by Sabrina Carpenter...!
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Warnings: 18+ (Explicit), Friends with Benefits, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Penetrative Sex, Dirty Talk, Praise, Possessive Language, Breeding Kink, Consent Checks, Aftercare, Referenced Emotional Manipulation, and a very attentive Jack Abbot.
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Authors Note: I really wanted to write something with Robby in it, but I still don't forgive him for being so mean to my beautiful babygorl Mohan soooo... tadaaa he's an asshole! 🩵
Guys, can I be honest? I need Jack to rip me away from all my problems and eat me on the kitchen counter LMAOOOO. A girl can dream!
Anyway... I really hope you enjoy this one! I'm getting much more comfortable writing smut, and I've been reading a lot of fics and studying what makes certain scenes work. I'm still figuring out my smut writing voice, but I feel like I'm getting closer with every fic.
As always, thank you for reading. You guys make all the time and effort worth it. 🤍
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You'd been sleeping with the Chief Attending of the Pittsburgh Trauma, Michael Robinavitch- Robby- for several months. Casual.
It's casual.
That's the agreement. No strings attached. No expectations- no feelings.
So you couldn't understand why it hurt so much.
The gang all headed to the local bar you frequented after a particularly hard shift, with the company of several night shifters. You'd spent twenty minutes pretending to listen to Whitaker's story, laughing in all the right places, nursing the same drink you'd barely touched.
Every few seconds, your eyes drift across the room. To Robby.
He was surrounded by doctors and nurses, smiling easy, a beer in his hand. Every time your eyes found his, he found somewhere else.
Like you weren't there.
Like he hadn't been in your bed two nights ago.
------------------
Jack's jaw tightened. He watched as his friend ignored your eyes another time. He knew. As much as it was kept secret... Jack was painfully aware of the situation-
Because Robby had told him. More like gloated about it. Not intentionally-not at first.
It started with casual comments after shifts.
"She's fun."
"She makes the hours easier."
Then the stories got louder.
"Brother, she was on her knees in 2 seconds flat..."
"She's so fucking easy..."
That made Jack look up from his chart. "You shouldn't talk about her like that."
"Oh, come onnnn. Don't act like you're any better, Mr. One- Night Stand."
"...Yeah." Jack hadn't answered after that.
He never did. Because there wasn't any point. Robby never knew the difference between telling a story, and talking about a person.
He hates that.
Hates how sad you look on the bar stool. Hates the way you keep looking across the room, hoping he'll finally look back. Hates how you look like that, all for someone who won't look your way once.
You look... beautiful. Your hair fell in carefully curled waves instead of its usual ponytail... the top hugged your figure... and the necklace around your neck tying it all together.
You really made an effort tonight.
For Robby- he reminds himself.
You made an effort. He noticed immediately. Robby never did.
Jack watches you stare into your drink, nodding along absentmindedly at something Mel said. You look up with a smile.
The smile never reached your eyes.
That's it. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was crossing the room. He stands before you, pulling your attention.
------------------
"Hey ...Jack?" Your eyes flick up to him in surprise. Aside from the occasional shift, you'd barely spoken.
Mel catches the look between the two of you. Her brows lifts ever so slightly. Without a word, she offers you a knowing smile before slipping away, leaving the empty stool beside you.
Jack settles into it, glancing at the drink still clutched in your hand.
"You gonna drink that?"
You blink. "What? Oh-" Your gaze drops to the nearly full glass.
"Yeah... eventually. I'm working on it."
"Mhm" His eyes narrow just enough to make you squirm.
"Doesn't sound like you're very committed to that drink."
A sheepish laugh escapes you. "I guess it's not really my favorite..."
"So why order it?"
Your fingers tighten around the glass. "...I don't know”
…
"It's Robby's favorite." Jack's eyes lock on yours.
Heat creeps on your face, all you can manage is a small nod.
He exhales quietly. "You waiting around for someone..." His gaze drifts to Robby- still blissfully unaware you're even talking to another man—
"...or just hoping someone notices you?"
The words settle heavily between you. You look away first.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
A quiet huff of amusement escapes him. "Sure."
You busy yourself with the condensation on your glass, tracing circles with your thumb.
"You know..." Jack begins, leaning one forearm against the bar. "You keep looking over there."
You don't have to ask where. "I wasn't—"
"You were."
Your cheeks burn.
"I counted."
Your head snaps toward him. "You... counted?"
"Eight times." His expression barely changes. "In the last five minutes."
"Oh my God."
"You looked over." He shrugs. "I noticed."
"I didn't realize anyone was paying that much attention."
"I was." The words leave him simply. Matter-of-fact. Just stating the obvious. The truth.
For the first time all night, you aren't looking at Robby. You're looking at Jack. Really looking at him.
"You curled your hair."
Your lips part. "What?"
"You usually throw it up before we even clock out." His eyes linger for only a second before returning to yours.
"Looks nice."
You instinctively reach up, fingertips brushing one of the loose curls. "I..."
"And that necklace..." His gaze flicks to the delicate chain resting against your collarbone. "...haven't seen that one before."
You suddenly feel far too aware of yourself. Of the low rise jeans. Of the lipstick you'd almost wiped off before coming.
"You notice a lot."
"I do."
Silence.
His gaze doesn't waver. It isn't hungry. It isn't polite, either. It's appreciative. Like he's allowing you to be seen.
Across the room, Robby throws his head back with another laugh.
Neither of you looks.
Jack glances at your untouched drink before looking back at you.
"You wanna go home?"
------------------
Somehow, he'd driven you to his apartment instead of yours. You hadn't questioned it. Tonight, making decisions felt impossible. So you'd let him make them for you.
He led you inside, guiding you toward the kitchen before disappearing down the hall.
When he returned a minute later, he'd traded his scrubs for a pair of gray sweatpants... and nothing else.
Shirtless.
Your eyes lingered for half a second before snapping back to his face. Jack didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he did.
He grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then pressed the cold glass into your hands.
"Here." He nods toward it. "Get that horrible taste outta your mouth."
A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. "No more Miller Lite for me..."
"Good." He nods.
You take a sip, letting the silence settle between you. It's... comfortable. Different from the silence with Robby.
Jack leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "You know," he says after a moment, "you smiled more in the last 10 minutes than you did all night."
You blink. "I did?"
"Mhm."
"I don't think I did."
"You did." His certainty makes your stomach flutter.
"I just..." You shrug, looking down at the water in your hands. "I didn't realize how exhausting it was... waiting for someone."
Jack's expression softens. "You shouldn't have to."
Your throat tightens. "I know...I just wanted him to..." Your voice trails off.
"See you?"
Your eyes lift to his. A tiny nod.
"Shame."
"What?"
His gaze drifts over you, unhurried. "You got all dressed up..." his eyes return to yours
"...and wasted the view on Robby."
Heat rushes to your face. The shirtless man standing across from you suddenly feels far too close.
The broad shoulders, the strong arms folded across his chest... and the way he was looking at you.
Jack catches your reaction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You know..." he says quietly. "You're observant in the trauma bay."
You frown. "What does that mean?"
"Means you notice everything..." He pushes off the counter and takes a slow step toward you. "...except when someone's looking at you."
Your breath catches. He stops just in front of you.
"I noticed you the second you walked in." His voice drops, gentler now.
"I see you."
The room falls impossibly still. You search his face for any hint of teasing.
There isn't one.
His gaze lingers on yours for another long beat before it drops—just for a moment- to your lips.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
You don't. Jack closes the distance instead.
His lips find yours gently, almost cautiously, like he's been thinking about this for far longer than he'd ever admit. When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his.
"...Better?" he murmurs.
A shaky laugh leaves you. "Much."
"C'mere." His hands settled around your waist before you had the chance to question him. In one effortless motion, he lifted you onto the kitchen counter, settling himself between your knees.
"There," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now I don't have to crane my neck."
A laugh escaped you, soft and surprised.
"You laugh like that," he said quietly, "and you wonder why I couldn't stop looking."
Your smile faltered beneath the sincerity in his voice.
"Jack..."
His knuckles brushed gently along your cheek. Your hands found his chest, fingertips splaying against warm skin. Jack's breath caught almost imperceptibly. His eyes dropped to where you touched him before lifting back to yours.
Jack smiled small, almost disbelieving, then closing the distance between you again, kissing you a little deeper this time. He grazed your bottom lip with his tongue, coaxing it between your teeth.
Your hands now drifted his hair, bringing him close. Soft tugs on the strands.
He groaned softly against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His hands slid from your waist to your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles against the fabric of your jeans.
When he pulled back, his eyes were darker, pupils blown wide. "Can I—" His fingers found the hem of your shirt. "Can I take this off?"
He's asking- the realization settling warm in your chest.
You nodded, breathless, and he lifted it over your head with such care , like unwrapping something precious.
His gaze traveled over you-
The lace of your bra
The curve of your collarbone
the rapid rise and fall of your chest
"God," he breathed. "You're so fucking beautiful."
His mouth found your neck, kissing a path down to your collarbone. His hands moved to your back, unclasping your bra with practiced ease. When it fell away, he paused, just looking at you.
"Jack—"
"Let me..." he murmured. "...Let me look at you."
His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. You gasped, arching into him, a smile creeping against your skin.
"So responsive," he said softly, almost to himself. His mouth replaced his hands, tongue circling one nipple while his fingers worked the other.
"Does he ever take his time with you like this?"
The mention of Robby should have jarred you, but instead it only heightened it all. The difference between being used and being worshipped.
"No," you admitted, voice breaking. Never like this. Never with this much attention.
This much care.
"No," Jack repeated, satisfaction threading through the word. He kissed lower, across your ribs, down your stomach.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans.
"He doesn't know what he has, does he?"
He looked up at you from where he knelt between your thighs, waiting for permission. You lifted your hips in answer, and he pulled your jeans down slowly, taking your underwear with them.
The cool air hit your skin, but Jack's hands were warm as they slid back up your legs.
"Fuck," he breathed, spreading your thighs wider. "Look at you."
His mouth pressed against your inner thigh, kissing slowly upward. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
"Jack, please-"
"Please what?" His breath ghosted over where you needed him most.
"Tell me what you want."
"Your mouth," you gasped. "I want your mouth on me."
"Good girl." The praise sent heat flooding through you.
"Next time you're with him- If you're ever with him again- You’re going to remember this. You're going to remember how I made you feel."
Then his mouth was on you, and the thought became impossible.
He worked you with devastating care, his tongue circling your clit in slow, deep strokes before dipping lower. His hands gripped your thighs, prying you open, holding you still as you tried to rock against his face.
"God, you taste so good..." he murmured against you, the vibration making you whimper. "...so fucking perfect."
He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth returned to your clit. The sensation was overwhelming. Your hands found his hair, holding him there. He groaned in approval.
"That's it," he encouraged, fingers moving faster. "Take what you need. Use my mouth."
You were already close, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. Jack seemed to sense it, doubling his efforts, tongue moving in quick, focused circles while his fingers hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Jack—I'm—"
"Come for me," He demanded, voice rough.
“Let me feel it."
You shattered, crying out his name as the orgasm crashed through you. Jack didn't stop, working you through it until you were trembling, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet. His eyes dark with want. He stood, and you could see how hard he was through the gray sweatpants.
"You okay?" He asked, hands gentle on your thighs, rubbing up the plush of the skin.
You nodded, still catching your breath. "More than okay."
"Good." He kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
His hands moved to his waistband, pushing the sweatpants down. He was bare underneath, cock hard and flushed.
Your eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, and he smiled.
"See something you like?"
"Y-yes," you nod shyly.
He stepped between your legs again, one hand wrapping around himself, the other gripping your hip.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this," You said immediately. "I want you."
"Say my name."
"Jack." It came out breathless. Desperate.
"…Jack, Please."
He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
"You're going to remember this," He said, voice low and intense.
"Every time you think about him, you're going to remember how I feel inside you. How I make you feel." Then he pushed in slowly, giving you time to adjust to the stretch.
You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into skin.
"Fuck," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel incredible."
He started moving, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady on the counter.
"Thaat's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
"S-so good," you gasped. "Jack, you feel so good."
"Better than him?"
"Yes- God, yes-"
"Say it." His pace increased, hips snapping against yours.
"Say I'm better."
"You're better," you cried out. "So much better-"
"That's right." His hand moved between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. "You're mine tonight. You understand? Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice, combined with the pressure on your clit and the perfect angle of his thrusts, was pushing you toward another edge. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know, sweetheart. I can feel you." His movements became more urgent, more desperate. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you come apart for me."
His thumb circled faster, and that was all it took. You came with a broken cry of his name, clenching around him.
Jack groaned, thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. He came with your name on his lips, spilling inside you with a shudder.
For a moment, you both just breathed, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing in tandem.
Then Jack's hands gentled on your hips, and he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
Different from the intensity of moments before.
Different from Robby.
"Come here," he murmured, carefully pulling out. You winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he noticed immediately.
"I've got you."
He lifted you down from the counter, and when your legs wobbled, he simply scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.
"Jack, I can walk—"
"I know you can." He carried you through his apartment to his bedroom, shouldering the door open. "…Doesn't mean you have to."
He set you gently on his bed before climbing in beside you. His hands moved over you with tender care, smoothing back your hair, tracing the curve of your shoulder.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly. "I meant that. Every word."
You turned to face him, and he pulled you close, your head tucked under his chin.
His hand ran slowly up and down your spine, soothing, grounding.
Your chest tightened. For months, you'd been chasing someone's attention.
✿ your husband returns to you under the influence of a strange powder, and he needs you more than anything (or, a sex pollen oneshot with our favourite hedge knight)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7k
✿ cw: fem!reader + no y/n, reader isn’t physically described, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, outdoor sex, multiple orgasms (for both reader and dunk), praise!!, breeding!!, pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), slight overstimulation, slight painful sex in the beginning, needy + desperate dunk (he whinesss baby), fluff, strong language
Duncan lumbers through the crowded market streets, his large frame parting the tide of people who flow around him like water. He keeps one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other clutching a small pouch of sweets. Your favourite, he knows, coated in sugar with a treacle-sweet centre. He smiles to himself, imagining the look of joy that will pass over your face, seeing that your husband has brought you your favourite sweets, rather than the bread he claimed to have been craving.
Dunk ducks beneath a low-hanging awning as he winds his way between the stalls and through passageways between rickety buildings. The town reminds him a lot of Flea Bottom, and the shadows that dance through the walkways have a painful kind of nostalgia washing through him.
“Oi, watch it!”
Dunk startles, eyes shooting onwards where a market vendor, an angry vein bulging across his grime-coated forehead, points at an elderly woman wrapped in colourful shawls. Apples in reds and greens roll across the flagstones, a wooden box tipped on its side.
The vendor moves as though to strike the woman, but Dunk gets there first—somehow, he slips through the dispersing crowd and clamps a large hand around the vendor’s wrist. The vendor looks up, and up further, taking in the sheer size of Duncan, and the scowl on his face vanishes, melting back into the shadows.
“You will not lay your hand upon a woman,” Dunk growls, and then proceeds to shove the vendor away.
The vendor yelps, clutching at his bruising wrist—Dunk didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man that hard—while the hedge knight turns and squats, gathering the apples from the cobbles. When he returns them to the upturned box, he hefts it easily in one hand and peers down at the woman with a sympathetic smile.
“Are you alright?” He asks.
The woman smiles softly, reaching up to pat him gently on the forearm. “I am, my dear, thank you.”
Dunk nods to the box in his hand. “Does this belong to you?”
“I just purchased it,” the woman replies sheepishly. “But it seems my arms and hands do not work as well as they used to.”
“Well, my arms and hands work plenty fine,” Dunk says with a smile. “And my wife says I’m the best at carrying her things, so I shall carry the crate for you.”
The elderly woman smiles again, reaching up to pat Dunk’s cheek, before she turns, the pinks and greens and golds of her shawls swishing around her. She smells of powdery lavender incense and wax soap, and for the briefest of moments, Dunk is reminded of what little he recalls of his mother.
He follows her down the narrow lane after shooting one last threatening look at the vendor. She looks largely out of place amongst the common folk who traverse the market streets dressed in browns and greys, fraying cotton and stained linen. She is colourful, eccentric, her skin dark and clean of any age spots, the wrinkles shallow. She didn’t appear as old as Dunk first thought, but maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention.
After a few minutes of walking, the woman leads Dunk through a small, dark alcove, and stops outside a wooden door painted a forest green, a brass knocker resembling a lion mounted to the front. She unlocks and pushes open the door, and Dunk is hit with a thick aroma of herbs and flowers.
“May I bother you to bring them inside?” The woman asks softly.
“Of course,” Dunk replies instantly, and he stoops low to avoid the overhang of the doorway, following the woman inside, where the hall opens up into a room full of things.
Shelves line every wall, bottles and jars of liquids and powders filling them. They shine in different colours, different consistencies, and the smell that accumulates at Dunk’s head-height makes him slightly dizzy. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling—which the giant man finds out when he is smacked in the face by a bundle of desiccated spices.
Dunk places the crate of apples onto a table in the middle of the room, the wood clinking against several empty and half-filled bottles across the surface. When he rights himself, the elderly woman places her hand on his forearm once more. Her fingers are almost completely obscured by stacks of gold rings, and the bangles around her wrists jingle like chimes as she pets him like a child would a cat.
“I thank you for your kindness,” she tells him. “You will make yourself a fine knight one day.”
Dunk doesn’t think twice about the fact the lady knew he was to be a knight, but the compliment makes him burst with pride regardless. He dips his head respectfully, hand pressing to his chest in a sign of good faith.
“It was no problem at all.”
“Here, allow me to give you something in return,” the woman says, and turns to the lines of shelves behind her, fingers flitting across jars.
Dunk shakes his head, clearing his throat as his hand, once again, comes to rest against the pommel of his sword. He’s trying to appear more noble, but when he stands up straight, he hits the crown of his head on a low wooden beam, making him grunt.
“There is no need,” Dunk says around a hiss, rubbing the top of his head. “I do not—”
The woman points to a jar on the very top shelf, one she cannot reach, interrupting Dunk smoothly. “May you retrieve that one for me?”
Dunk bites his tongue and does what he is told. His large fingers pinch around the small jar the woman wants, and through the tempered glass he can see a yellow powder that seems to sparkle as it catches the low light of suspended candles. He hands it to the woman, who thanks him and pops the cork with a flick of her thumb.
She turns to face him. “When was the last time you lay with your wife?”
“I—” Dunk chokes on his spit. “I beg your—”
“I suppose we have seen the face of the sun many times since you have?” The woman taps the rim of the jar against her outstretched palm, collecting some of the powder. Dunk notices the traces of pink amongst the yellow. “Nearly twelve nights gone? You poor thing.”
Dunk stammers, but can’t articulate words.
Okay, maybe it has been that long, but only initially because your moon blood had arrived. The two of you usually had no qualms with being intimate whilst you bled, but you were particularly tender, and no amount of stretch from your husband’s tongue and fingers seemed to eliminate the ache, so you both decided against it.
Then, even when your blood had passed, the two of you travelling tirelessly for several days straight had meant Dunk did not want you to exert too much energy, even when you did plead with him.
The fact this woman knows that has suspicion, not quite fear, passing through him like a phantom.
“Your wife longs for you, and yet here you are, resorting to obtaining sweets to ease her qualms,” the woman says, and now Dunk is slightly creeped out. The bag of sweets hangs against his hip, fastened to the rope belt around his waist. The woman chuckles softly. “And that is why I believe this will be as good a reward as any.”
She lifts her palm and proceeds to blow the yellowy-pink powder directly into Dunk’s face. He sucks in a startled breath and it fills his lungs like smoke, his mouth tasting the sweetness of ripened grapes and honeyed wine. Quickly, he screws his eyes shut, but the powder lingers already in his lashline, and when he blinks, his vision seems brighter.
“What the—?” Dunk lifts his hand and wipes it down his face, stumbling back slightly.
“It is harmless to your overall health, and the effects will fade when you…” She hesitates, and then pats him on the chest. “Are satisfied, although that may take some effort. Now, be gone with you, Ser Duncan. You have a wife to return too.”
The woman, with surprising strength, spins Dunk around and pushes him out the door. It slams closed behind him, and he stands there with his head spinning, wondering how on earth she even knew his name.
In the shadows of the alcove, he catches his breath, which comes in increasingly laboured pants as his entire body begins to light up with warmth. His clothes feel too sticky against his skin, the back of his neck prickling, his temples dampening. The rope around his hips is too tight, the sword hanging there too heavy.
“Gods above, what is happening to me?” Dunk whispers to himself, looking down at his body as something stirs low in the pit of his stomach.
He thinks of you, waiting so patiently back at the campsite. He groans softly, reaching a hand down to press flat against his groin, where his cock is slowly beginning to harden in his breeches. The thought of you sitting against a tree, maybe mending one of his cloaks, or sharpening one of his blades, has a dizzy sort of pleasure seizing his brain.
Dunk whimpers your name, and stumbles out into the streets. He needs to get to you.
—✿—
The sky above is alight with oranges and pinks as the sun slowly begins to sink below the distant horizon. You watch it calmly, the forest around you quiet and serene, the sound of the nearby river washing through you and instilling a sense of calm. Your hand moves where you clutch your bone-handled blade, slicing it, bit-by-bit, through a small chunk of wood. It now resembles a horse, for the most part. You have taken up carving as a means of passing time, and selling the little statues earns you a bit of coin.
Your serenity is interrupted by the snapping of twigs and approaching footsteps. Several yards away, your horses do not startle, but you grip your knife tightly anyway as the footsteps encroach louder, then louder still. But you can hear the heavy thuds and the wide gait, and a small smile splits across your face when you recognise your husband’s footsteps.
You place your carving and knife aside, dusting the wood shavings from your hands as you get to your feet. Dunk appears through the tree line and your smile grows when you see him.
“Dunk!” You greet him. “I’ve been waiting…”
You take a moment to look at your husband as he walks towards you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a bright blush painting his cheeks. His eyes appear watery, and as he draws nearer, the hot skin of his face seems to shimmer with something iridescent.
He towers over you, and out of instinct, you reach up and cup your palms to his cheeks. His eyes fall closed and he groans, throaty and loud. He’s feverish, molten-hot. You smell overripe grapes, lavender and honeycakes as he shifts, ripping his cloak from his body and tossing it to the ground.
“What has happened to you?” You ask, concern overcoming you as your hands brace down his neck and chest now, feeling the rabbit-like thumping of his heart.
Dunk groans again, eyes opening to watch your hands work down his abdomen. A shudder racks through him when your hands stop at the waistband of his trousers, your eyes widening as you spot the straining imprint of his cock. Your eyes lift, sparkling in the evening light, and Dunk swears that look alone could have made him spill in his breeches.
“Have you taken something?” You question quietly, finding the knot of his rope belt. You unfasten and unravel it, hefting the sword too and placing it on the ground. Dunk watches with his hands balled into fists. He’ll tell you about the sweets later. You peer back up at him again. “Duncan?”
His name leaving your lips forces him to his knees. A whine rips from the back of his throat as he drops, and you gasp as his knees crackle through dried leaves. His hands reach out, encircling around your hips as he lines himself up with your abdomen, his mouth pressing to your stomach.
Your hands card through his hair, worried. “Dunk, my love?”
“A woman… she gave me something—blew a powder into my face,” Dunk gasps out, leaning his burning cheek against you, listening to your breathing. “Says I will… says it will feel better when I am sat–satisfied.”
You frown. “Satisfied?”
Dunk nods, nuzzling into you. His hips shift as well, and suddenly you feel the tent of his trousers pressing to your leg through your skirts. A soft gasp escapes you as you continue to card your fingers through his hair, tussling the longish brown locks.
You know what he means by satisfied, considering his cock seems to be burning hot through both the fabric of his breeches and trousers, and the material of your simple dress.
“It hurts,” Dunk mutters, mouthing at your dress now, lips pressing to the softness of your belly. The fabric wets with his saliva as his tongue darts out, dragging over the linen. You grimace and thread your fingers against his scalp, holding him firmly and dragging his head away. He whimpers loudly, eyes flying open as he whines out, “Hurts so bad, sweetheart.”
Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest, your stomach churning with worry. You don’t want your husband hurting, but what was really wrong with him? He had left to the market for bread or something of the sort, and returned, not only empty-handed, but flushed with desire with his trousers practically ripping at the seams.
“Duncan…” You continue to grip his hair so he can’t literally lick your dress. “What hurts? You need to tell me.”
Dunk groans as your other hand shifts back to his cheek, stroking the warmed flesh. He leans into the touch with drooping eyelids, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black in the fading light of dusk.
“My—” Dunk blows out a breath as if battling something in his brain. “My… oh gods, my love, I can’t say—I just can’t—”
You know what he wants to say. You know it when his hips twitch and he drags the imprint of his cock against your leg once more.
Something warm is blooming in your core now too. The sight of your husband on his knees before you, clutching you as if you were keeping him alive, feverish in his pleasure, has you starting to leak into the gusset of your smallclothes. Heat fills your tummy as you stroke his cheek, the tips of your fingers collecting a shimmering film of yellow and pink dust. It seems to be trapped in his pores, coating his freckles as he peers up at you.
You massage his scalp, which is damp with sweat. “Does your cock hurt, sweet boy?”
The words feel too alien coming from your mouth, much too crude for a lady, but the shock that passes over your husband’s face is euphoric to your slowly dampening core. His mouth drops open, his tongue practically lolling out like a tired hound, as a groan rumbles from his chest and he starts to nod. His cock presses to your thigh and he tries to grind himself against you, but you tug on his hair to get him to stop.
“Well, tell me what you need me to do,” you whisper down at him. “I can help you. You just need to be a good boy and tell me what you need, okay?”
Dunk groans. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—I can be good. I just—I just need you, pl-please, my love, I need you.”
You coo at him. “Need me? I’m right here, Dunk.”
“No,” he whines out, leaning his forehead against your stomach. You let him. He groans again, this time more high-pitched, bordering on a whimper. “Need your…”
“Need my…?”
“Gods, my heart is going to implode,” Dunk huffs as an aside. “Please—”
“What do you need, Dunk?” You ask firmly, gripping his hair and forcing him away from your stomach. The broken sound that leaves him almost makes you feel bad, but you need him to make some kind of sense before you give him anything. You know exactly what he wants, but he needs to work for it.
Dunk licks his lips, looking you up and down, and the words that leave his mouth sound like nothing you’ve ever heard from him in the entire time you’ve known him. His tone is dark with need, but still light enough to know his words are edging around a whine. “Need your pussy. Need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. Need to pump you so full that—”
He cuts himself off with a low moan as you push his head down, pinning him and muffling the rest of his rambling against the fabric covering your mound. His mouth laves over the linen straight away, and the heat that overtakes you threatens to burn you from the inside out.
“Come on then, my boy,” you whisper, rubbing his scalp gently, your other hand smoothing down the strong expanse of his shoulders. “Help me out of this dress and I can give you what you want.”
Dunk grunts in relief as he hurries to his feet and spins you around so fast you feel dizzy. He walks you back a few paces until you can brace your hands against the coarse bark of a tree as he pulls at the ties along the back of your dress. He rips the knots undone, large hands trembling as he makes quick work of unthreading the ribbons he himself had tied earlier that morning.
His movements are harsh. Gods, he’s trying to be gentle, but he just can’t help it.
“Duncan…” You grumble, jostled as he tugs and pulls.
“M’sorry,” he slurs as, giving up on the last few ribbons, he hooks his fingers beneath the silky strings and rips them. You gasp as he practically pulls your dress apart, the sound of material tearing filling the forest as your dress loosens around your shoulders and breasts. Dunk slurs again, “M’so sorry, sweet girl.”
He pulls you to him as he drags your dress from your body, leaving you in your smallclothes as you kick the mass of skirts away. The chemise follows—Dunk pulls it over your head and spins you around at the same time, and you yelp at the speed of it all. Your breasts spill out into the cool air of the forest and his head ducks immediately, mouth attaching to a hardening nipple as one of his large hands finds the other. He kneads it as he drops to his knees once more, sucking harshly whilst his other hand finds your smallclothes.
“Dunk,” you call for him through a whine as he tugs them down, and you barely have time to send them away from your ankles before he’s ripping your legs apart.
His mouth drops from your tits, skims briefly over the soft skin of your tummy, before his nose is dragging down your mound and burrowing between your legs.
You gasp. “Dunk, oh my—”
“Need this,” Dunk grumbles. “Gods, need this. Got to—y’gotta give it to me, sweetheart.”
He inhales deeply, and the sensation makes you squeal and squirm, your back arching against the tree. Your hands find his damp hair again, tugging. But it’s no deterrent—the giant inhales again, this time followed by a loud, unabashed moan that sends the birds above flying from their roosts. The forest seems to echo with it, and you can feel the heat of his face burning deeper as he buries himself against you. You feel his mouth split open, warm lips parting for his tongue to curl outwards. He licks through your folds as another groan spills, the vibrations buzzing through you like bees trapped in a jar.
Your hands shift from his head to his shoulders, and you tug at the fabric of his tunic.
“Dunk,” you say hurriedly. “Off.”
He removes himself from you with a grunt, letting you help him in flinging his tunic off. It lands somewhere in the distance. Dunk doesn’t care though, descending between your legs again and drawing your clit into his mouth with one harsh suck. It makes you yowl, fingernails biting crescents into the freckled skin of his shoulders. His skin is sticky with sweat and impossibly warm.
With another animalistic grunt, Dunk takes one of your legs and tosses it over his shoulder. The new angle allows him to drive his tongue into your drooling hole, and the abruptness makes you keen into him, hips twitching as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit. Blood pools low beneath the skin, simmering hot in your nerves as he ruts his tongue inside you, each movement eliciting a gravelly groan from the depths of his chest.
His other hand unties the knots of his trousers. He pushes the fabric away with fumbling fingers and pulls his aching cock out of his breeches, the material on the front wet with precum. When his fingers wrap around the length—hot iron wrapped in a sheath of velvet—and the sword callouses on his palm rub against a vein on the underside, his vision whites behind his eyelids. The pleasure is almost painful, the pressure pulling heavily at his cockhead, bruising a purplish-red. Precum leaks from the slit in a continuous rivulet that has his heart knocking against his sternum.
His balls are tight already, and as he tastes you, listening to the light whimpers that fall from your mouth, he realises he’s going to spill. He realises it as his precum wets his palm, his hand gliding without him even needing to spit on it. He realises it as his cock twitches heavily in his hand, again and again; that unmistakable pressure in his lower spine and belly building. He wants to let it happen—he rucks his hips, meeting the movements of his hand, fucking his fist. Grunts muffle in your wet pussy as he chases his high, your thigh warm on his ear.
The precipice of pleasure is right there, but he can’t reach it.
He strokes his cock, twists at the base, tastes the heady scent of you dripping down the back of his throat, but he can’t come.
“Dunk,” you call sweetly, tipsy on pleasure. “Oh, gods, Dunk, keep going.”
It feels like Dunk’s entire face is wet: the upper portion damp with sweat, the lower portion shining with your slick. His mouth moves against you like he’s kissing you, lips spreading and tongue curling. He breathes you in, moaning softly, head bobbing as he continues to fist his cock. It’s nearly trembling in his hand, and you can feel Dunk shivering as he chases a release that refuses to let go.
You can hear him fucking his fist over the wet slurps of his tongue against your pussy. As the forest darkens around you, your ears ring with it, your bare back scratching against the tree trunk as you rock your hips. His mouth is searing hot, forged from the very fires of Dragonstone.
Your thigh quivers over his shoulder as you speak. “Duncan, m’gonna come.”
Your only response is a deep grunt that vibrates your puffy clit, and that has your legs locking up even tighter. Pleasure takes deep root in the base of your spine, and it spreads as you take, take, take, until you topple into your orgasm. It rocks through you, and you hold him tightly, rocking your hips as you spasm around his tongue. Chants of his name roll easily over your lips, and he groans nicely against you as he fucks you through it.
Dunk pulls away after a couple of seconds. His breathing is ragged, lips wet, chest flushed red. He’s still fisting his cock, and you look down at him, meeting his round, watery eyes as he nuzzles against the thigh still draped over his shoulder.
“I…” He breathes in deeply. “I can’t—oh, fuck, I can’t—”
His hand is moving so fast. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, and you gingerly remove your thigh from his shoulder. Then, you tap his head.
“Stand up for me, Dunk,” you say gently, trailing a nail along the dip of his clavicle. “I’ll help you, I promise.”
Your husband springs to his feet before you even finish speaking, pushing his trousers and breeches all the way off.
He continues to grasp his cock. It leans forward under the weight of his pleasure, and you both groan when he rubs the head against the soft skin above your navel. Precum spreads across your skin, and when he pulls back, a sticky string connects you two for just a moment. You whimper his name when the string snaps, and he draws in a sharp, almost pained breath.
“Inside,” he whispers, more to himself than you. He drags the head of his cock down as he bends at the knee. “Need… yeah, need to be inside.”
The angle is slightly awkward—he’s just a bit too big—but he makes it work, stooping low as he angles your legs apart. The head of his cock finds the tight hole of your cunt, and he presses it there with surprising restraint.
“M’sorry,” Dunk breathes, leaning forward to mouth at your throat. You arch, and he purrs, pleased, as you willingly give yourself up to him. He kisses your jaw softly. “M’sorry, sweet girl, m’not gonna… I can’t wait. Jus’ need you, s-so jus’ be good, okay? I’ll try—I’ll try t’be gentle, my love. I’ll try for you.”
The head of his cock slips past the ring of your pussy, and you suck in a breath at the stretch. Wide, splitting, and no matter how wet you are, how long he took in stretching you open on his tongue or fingers, there was always a battle of bodies. Always a push to get him fully seated inside you, the tight walls of your cunt clutching around the thick intrusion.
You whimper his name again, nails needling into the tawny freckles along his shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Dunk chants, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel you tensing against him, but he doesn’t stop.
He’s overwhelmed: the heat of your pussy draws his cock in further, his mind going blank, the taste of grapes and lavender aromatic in the grooves of his molars, and leaking from his pores.
His cock slides in further, parting the wet walls of your pussy inch by inch. “Please take it, sweet girl. Please just—fuck, take it.”
It hurts. He’s too fucking big, and he knows it.
You writhe against the tree, standing on your tip-toes now as he drives slowly into you. You're thankful he’s at least easing in bit by bit. You’re not sure you would have survived if he simply took you in one fell thrust.
But at the same time, it feels incredible. The sting of the stretch is underlined by that usual, aching pleasure that festers deep in your pelvis. You feel it as the ridges of his cock run against your posterior wall, splitting you apart, rubbing you the right way. Your heartbeat thrums heavily in your clit, and your back arches against the tree, fingernails now scraping down his broad back.
“Dunk,” you whimper as he feeds his cock into you.
He groans against your throat, sucking harshly. The sound of his name on your mouth, so sweet, so beautiful, snaps whatever composure he had been holding onto. With another guttural groan, Dunk surges forward, jolting his hips inwards and stuffing the rest of his cock inside you.
You cry out, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. He’s rough, his pace coming in quick, brutal thrusts, and he’s panting against your dewy skin all the while. His body shakes against yours as he pulls his cock out, then shoves it back in. You yowl like an injured animal, and Dunk’s heart flutters in his chest.
“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry—” It rambles from him like a mantra but his hips don’t slow. He spreads you apart, girth still too thick, length still too long. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know, but just… gods, just stay like that. Please, sweet girl, be good for me.”
Your back scrapes against the tree as his movements propel you. You’re practically bouncing against him, barely even touching the ground anymore as he takes what he needs. The slide of his cock does hurt, but your walls mould around him like clay. Made for him.
The heat and wetness of your pussy sends him over the edge, and you feel it. You feel him go rigid against you, muscles stiffening as his hips buck. His thrusts grow sloppy, seconds blurring together as his balls tighten and his cock twitches deep inside you. You feel it, feel it nudging up against the plug of your cervix as his hips roll. Then, with a rasping moan of your name, he spills inside you. Deep inside you. Warmth floods your lower belly, through the hollow of your womb as his hips jerk, his mouth biting and sucking at your neck.
And he keeps spilling. It fills you to the brim, and you can’t help but whimper as it drools out from around his cock. With a slightly disgruntled huff, Dunk pulls out, leaning back to look at where his cock hangs, still stiff, between his legs. Cum seeps from the slit, spider-web strings drooling from you too, and the sight almost has him coming again.
But he’s still hard.
“S’not…” Dunk’s brows furrow, and he slants his hips forward to drag his cock against your thigh. You squirm and whine as he wipes his cum across your skin, and then moan when the head prods back at your hole. Dunk whimpers. “S’not enough, need more.”
Then, he’s thrusting back in again. The forest’s shadows engulf you both as he slots himself inside of you, the glide quick and wet and audible as he drives home. You choke on a gasp, hands clutching his shoulders. Your legs are cramping, your back stinging, your pussy aching—but it all softens around the edges as Dunk ruts into you again and again.
“Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, please.”
Your husband lifts his head and finally kisses you. For the first time tonight, he slots his mouth against yours. The moan that leaves him has your cunt clenching tightly around the thick of his cock, and one of your hands finds the back of his neck as your tongues meet. It’s an intricate dance, but Dunk's movements are just too desperate to stick to the practised moves—his tongue is breaching, too thick and too strong, flattening against yours roughly. You swap spit, and he pants into the kiss as he chases your tongue and licks over the points of your teeth. It’s sloppy and messy and everything Dunk needs.
His hands are on your waist. Big, encompassing, fingers dimpling the flesh. His cock stretches you open, his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your arse as he ruts you against the tree. The wet sounds of you coming together echo softly through the forest, the sun sunk beyond the horizon now, shadows stretching far and flitting across your connected frames.
“Being so good,” Dunk mutters, licking over your parted lips. It makes you whimper, and your bottom teeth catch his lip. He groans when you release him after a playful nip. “Gods, always so good for me. Needed this so bad, sweetheart. Needed you so bad.”
“Dunk,” you mewl, scratches red along his big shoulders.
Your cunt squeezes tightly around him, another release building deep in your stomach: that same feeling as minutes before, a traction building along your spine as he fucks you. Dunk mouths along your jaw, panting into your ear as his thrusts start to stammer, and before you can react, he’s pulling you away from the tree and manhandling you to the ground. His hard cock slips out of you, the sensation forcing you to suck in a breath as his seed all but drools from your gaping cunt, the cool forest air a sudden stimuli as you’re spun around.
You let out a light grunt as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, which find the wool of his discarded cloak. Leaves crinkle softly beneath your weight as your back arches and the warmth of Duncan appears behind you. Large, calloused hands trail up your sides, kneading your waist, before dragging back down and palming the curve of your arse.
Dunk gazes at you through the semi-darkness. “Prettiest girl in the realm, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”
He grunts, then grips the base of his cock. It shines with your slick, wet with his spend too, and he slaps the thick head against one of your arsecheeks. You huff, and he drags the tip down the split of your arse until it ghosts across your hole—just lightly enough to make you draw in an anticipatory breath—before it finds your pussy.
“This is mine,” Dunk utters, and you almost don’t hear him. Even in the relative silence of the forest, his words are so quiet you could have mistaken them for the nearby river. Dunk circles his tip through your soaking folds before notching it and pushing in again. The groan that leaves his mouth makes you shiver. “This—fuck—this fuckin’ pussy, s’all mine. Hey, sweet girl, isn’t that right? Yeah? Tell me this is all mine.”
He thrusts in and you shout, voice carrying through the forest.
“Huh?” Dunk thrusts again, hard and fast. The angle drives him deep against you, tip knocking against the plug of your cervix. He leans over you, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair messy, cheeks pink. His hands pull your arse back onto his pelvis, meeting you thrust for thrust. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Need—need you to tell me. Please.”
You don’t know what that woman gave him, but you can see what it’s done to him. You can hear what it’s done, and feel what it’s done.
His rutting is brutal, his cock driving deep towards your womb, your belly full of him. Your arms shake where you hold yourself up, sweat damp in the crook of your elbows as you fist his cloak. It smells like him, and that makes the whines trapped in your throat break free.
“It’s yours, Dunk,” you manage to say as he leans over you, his body hot and too fucking big pressed against your lower spine. You gasp when one of his hands wraps around your hip and heads south, a finger finding your swollen clit. “Oh, fuck, it’s yours.”
Dunk draws a tight circle over the bud, marvelling in the way your pussy immediately tightens around him. “Yeah it is. Gods, I’m the luckiest man in all the seven kingdoms.”
You don’t correct him.
Your body trembles beneath his, and it’s almost like you can feel his cock swelling inside you. He’s impossibly thick, the ridges and veins sliding against the velvet of your walls, the head nailing that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Dunk always knows how to make you feel good, can always get you to where you want to go, but this is something entirely different. There’s an intensity within him you’ve never seen before. A feverish need that’s overtaken him, that flows from his pores, that infects every fibre of his being.
It makes you keen, back arching, listening to the way he grunts with each of his movements, cock splitting you open, heavy balls slapping against your clit as his fingers work against it too. The meat of his muscles are warm against you, solid and sturdy, holding you in place. It all adds to the sensation.
Another orgasm is quickly pulled through your body, and Dunk praises you through it as it crests like a wave.
“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he coos as you come around him, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Your spine dips, hips stuttering, and Dunk removes his fingers from your aching clit to place a hand in the middle of your back. He forces you into a deeper arch, the new angle punching a scream from your throat as he coos again. “I know, I know, don’t make a fuss, sweet girl. You can do it. You can take me.”
Dunk’s breathing is laboured, and his stamina starts to falter as his cock twitches. Your cunt feels like heaven—a warm, silken heaven—and he screws his eyes shut momentarily, visions of him spilling deep inside you, straight into your womb, vivid in his mind. Maybe you shouldn’t drink the moon tea he finds you brewing during rest stops. Maybe he won’t have to spill across your stomach or tits or arse ever again.
He opens his eyes and grunts around a clenched jaw. “Ah—s’about time I breed—fuck—breed you, sweetheart. Huh? What do you think? Come deep inside this—ah, gods—t-this pretty pussy and give you my child. You’d look so beautiful all fat with my babe, wouldn’t you? Keep you n-nice and bred.”
“Yes, Dunk, fuck,” you moan. “Please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls out, fingers a vice on your hips. “Let me feel you. One more time, c’mon, my sweet girl. Let go for me one more time.”
You don’t know if you can.
Your body feels wrung out, like a dress soaked and dried by the river. Your heart clatters against your chest as your breasts push against the material of his cloak. There’s an uncomfortable pressure building in your lower tummy, mostly overwhelmed by overstimulation, but you can feel the remains of pleasure there too.
And Dunk knows you have it in you.
“One more,” he says. “One more, sweetheart, you can do it.”
Body on fire, nerves flaming at their ends, you meet his sloppy thrusts as best as you can. Your limbs tremor like a fawn, and your moans have long run dry: only hoarse whimpers roll from your tongue tasting lightly of honeyed wine.
And then you do give him one more.
Your body reacts to the manic pushing of his cock inside you, reacts to the thick of his cock splitting you open, reacts to the way he whispers your name like the sweetest kind of prayer. You come around him, arms collapsing as your pussy flutters around his girth. You topple forward, moaning his name while the ground shifts to meet you, and your legs seize, verging on a cramp.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I want,” Dunk babbles, a large hand wrapping around the back of your neck now and pulling you onto your knees. You’re boneless, and he’s so strong, so you can’t do much but let him haul you back against his broad, sweaty chest. He presses a hot kiss to the skin just beside your tragus. “Such a good girl—you did it. Gods, my sweet girl, my perfect girl. You did it, an’ you did so good for me.”
Bulky arms encircle you, bouncing you back against his cock. He grunts into your ear, ragged and bearish, as his entire body pulses with heat. He’s feverish, ill with pleasure, and you’re his soothing balm: the perfect remedy.
With one last pathetic whimper of your name, Dunk shoves himself to the hilt, as deep as he can possibly go, as his orgasm flows through him. His teeth sink into the skin on your shoulder as his cock jerks, hot spurts flooding thick into your womb. You sigh softly into the cool early night air, reclining back against your husband as he empties himself inside you again, your pussy milking him for all it’s worth. Dunk groans into your shoulder, fever finally breaking, his cock giving one last jolt before it slowly starts to soften inside of you. The feeling nearly makes his eyes roll into the back of his head, relief filling him.
You stay like this for a little while. He presses silent, delicate kisses along your bare shoulder and onto your cheek, his hands rubbing over your breasts and belly, but not in a sexual way. His big, rough hands are calming as you both fizzle down from your highs.
Soon though, Dunk realises the forest around you has grown too dark. Wordlessly, he helps you to your feet, bundling you in his cloak before guiding you towards the fire. It is made, but unlit, but it’s roaring in mere minutes as Dunk—who has hurriedly thrown his breeches and trousers on—adds more fuel to the flickering orange flames.
Then, beneath the firelight, Dunk cleans you up. You sit on a stump before him as he dabs a wet cloth between your legs, wiping his seed from your core. He presses tender kisses to the inside of your knees, and soon you’re dressed, and the two of you snack on salt beef, cuddling beneath the stars.
“Maybe you should go back to that woman,” you say jokingly, turning your head to find Dunk already looking at you. His eyes reflect the fire. You smile. “I like it when you’re needy. I wonder if she has a long-lasting one?”
Dunk flushes, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to have to go through that again. As much as it felt great, my cock also felt about ready to break in half.”
You laugh, and Dunk resumes watching you carefully. After a moment, something lights up in his eyes, and he gets to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of salt beef, and retrieves his rope belt from where the horses graze nearby. When he returns, you lean your head against the pillowy muscle of his upper arm, peering at his big hands as he plucks a small pouch from the belt.
“I got you these,” your husband says shyly, handing you the bag.
You beam when you open it and see your favourite sweets. You incline your head and urge Dunk down to you, drawing his mouth into a sweet kiss.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you more.”
Then, you laugh. “Oh, you poor boy. You went to the market to purchase some sweets, and instead you got poisoned—” you say that part sarcastically, “—by a little old lady. My poor, poor boy.”
You reach up and stroke his hair, watching with awe as his eyes fall closed and a deep purr leaves his chest. His arm wraps tighter around you, pulling you closer into his side.
He never wants to let you go.
———
god he’s so hot
describing his muscles as ‘pillowy’ really got to me i need to lie down
oh he would, it may be rare but after seeing that scene from the puppet show, his teeth bared and angry because of what aerion did to tanselle, it would happen— though it’s not directed towards you.
dunk being rougher (18+)
pairing: ser duncan x fem!reader
it would be the situation and environment he’s in that spurs his mood from being more gentle to rough, he has the ability to manhandle.. those heavy hands and thick fingers, those broad shoulders he knows he can do damage and he doesn’t want to do that and hurt you. so if something really does offend him or rile him up, he’ll take time to calm down, mostly taking a breather outside, allowing the air around him enough to cool the burning as it always had, but it didn’t shrug the heat..
and you notice it, it’s obvious, the way his nostrils flare and he can’t stay put for longer than ten seconds, so you decide to pull him into you, urging him inside and to relax, or at least not to be on his own. he grumbles, turning to face you for a moment but he listens— he wouldn’t refuse you. and he folds in your arms, forehead knocking against yours as you climb up into his lap from where he sits. you’re aware of what you’re doing and be can feel it, heavy and charged hands coming to palm at your back, holding you to him though he freezes when you start to kiss him, knowing what you want.
“Don’t know if I can be gentle right now, love..”
his voice is pleading, almost whining as he breathes against your lips, blue eyes wandering to your own, strained but blown. and he means it, it’s not that he doesn’t want to touch you, gods he wants you.. but there is still a rage there, a rugged need. so you take it into your own hands, giving him the word without saying it. take me.. you kiss him again, telling him it’s alright, that he’s still a gentleman, still your dunk, and he lets go just a little.
his lips are rougher on yours, consuming as he switches places with you, scooping you up into his arms and laying you down onto the mattress of your shared room. he shrugs his shirts off over his shoulders as you rest back onto the furs, and he slides up your body, pressing open mouthed kisses up your legs to your thighs and coasting over your clothed core. he lets out a breath, resting against you as his fingers curl around your skirts, ruffling them until they sit at your middle, baring your cunt to him.
he waits there for a second, eyes flicking up yours as you attempt to shuffle closer to him, his arm coming down to rest over your waist— locking you in place and he shoves his face into you. dunk sucks lightly groaning into you as he gathers the wetness with his tongue, wet muscle lapping at your hole in a frenzy. your hands fly out and into his hair, back arching into him as you fuck your self into his tongue. you’re beautiful like this.. your moans filling the room as you coat him, juices flowing at his mouth as his lips attach at your clit. and by the time you’re close, he’s rocking himself against the mattress, soothing the ache of you beneath him. his arm curls tighter, your hands fisting the sheets as your climax nears, body convulsing with every pull of his mouth, tongue fucking in and out of your hole as you arch once more, letting go onto him with a cry.
he guides you through it with every convulse and jerk your body makes, finally releasing you with a pop, your hair mussed and eyes lidded as he rises. pulling at the seam of his trousers, his knees press into the mattress, glancing your way in a break in the fever— meaningful.
“Are you sure..?” you only nod, breath already ragged and uneven, tugging him toward you by his wrist and he follows, “I’am.. please..”
he undoes them, freeing his cock into his hand, long and hard rocking against his stomach, and he leans back down to you, torso touching your through thin cotton, lips capturing yours like a fire. and in one steady push, gliding into your wetness that pooled between your folds from his tongue. your mouth fell open, gasping as he took you, his hand bracing down at the pit of your stomach, where his length dragged in and out, punching up into your cervix like it was nothing, working you open. but he was steady, propped up on his free arm and elbow and still towering over you, the blondes of his hair dampened at his forehead.
“Gods.. you’re everything.. I can’t hold it.”
his hand reaches down to your clit, watching your face all the while as you twist in his hold, your back arching off of the sheets and into him from the pleasure building. his thrusts were relentless, sloppy and needy as he grunted, with every slam foiling you tighter, and his thumb working gentle circles at your wetness. dunk rested his head against your shoulder with your arms tightened around the length of his back, stretching around him as you moaned.
“Let go for me.. I’ve got you.”
he held his own peak until you snapped, clenching around him with a cry and he groaned, holding it no longer, hips straining into your own where his rhythm faltered, lasting only seconds after you before he broke. white hot cum filling you while he rocked into you, his body falling into yours before he caught himself, palm stroking your temple.
“I love you..”
dunk was softer then, sniffing lightly as he looked back down at you and your blissed out smile, “Well that was new..” he huffed a laugh, nose twitching at yours affectionately, his hand soothing your hip with his other hand.
“I didn’t want to hurt you..”
— cue him being a big softie and running you both a bath, or pulling you to lay on his chest apologising because he didn’t mean to.. and you’re just there like “yeah 🫠” because you’re fucked the hell out.
Hear me out on Ser Duncan x Targ!fem!reader , who is Aerion’s twin. Her and Dunc are going completely at it (size kink prolly) and Aerion finds them and is pissed!
Ty
i'm obsessed with targ!reader with dunk, it's fueling my fire even more, especially with bitch aerion in the background, I'll see what I can do darling..
NFWMB
pairing: ser duncan the tall x targfem!reader
warning(s): SMUT, pinv, size kink, aerion, verbal abuse, getting walked in on, threats, arranged marriage (doesn't happen) good ending.
word count: 3.5k
a/n: i was listening to hozier with this.. you’re welcome ;)
The inner chamber of the Red Keep was a sanctuary of stolen moments, its heavy velvet drapes drawn tight against the prying eyes of the court, the air thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint, metallic tang of armor discarded in haste. Flickering light danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows that hid the world outside, leaving only you and the knight you had grown to spend any waking moment with in this fragile bubble of intimacy. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and earnest, his callused hands gentle despite their size as they roamed your body with a reverence that made your heart ache. Betrothed as you were to your own brother, whose silver-haired temper loomed over every stolen glance and bound to a life you knew to hate, but here, in the quiet hours, you found solace in Duncan's arms— his love a steady flame against the storm of your obligations.
It began with time.
With Duncan lingering after drills, helmet tucked beneath his arm as if he’d forgotten where he was meant to go next. With you finding him in corridors meant for servants, where the torchlight was kinder and the walls listened less, shared bread torn in half because neither of you thought to fetch another plate or bother with anyone else around you.
King's Landing had a way of pressing people into their roles, daughter, knight, dragon,but somehow, around him, the air loosened. And you noticed it first in the small things. The way he always waited for you to walk ahead, pace adjusting unconsciously to yours, and the way he tracked your face and hands as you talked, as if what you did mattered as much as what you said. And from it you began to sit closer without remarking on it.
On stone benches in the training yard, your shoulder brushing the leather of his jerkin, you had started inviting yourself to sit beside him in the quiet alcoves during feasts, where the noise dulled enough for murmured words to feel like secrets. And the laughter that escaped you had been rawer, more genuine than it had been at the high table, and his mouth curved like he’d won something precious without meaning to.
But Dunk, never reached first. And that was the danger of it, even in those private moments where neither of you could could breathe right, faltering a little in your step, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder.
Under the shadowed archway of the tower, the cool evening breeze whispered through the stone corridors of the keep, carrying the distant clamor of the court below. Ser Duncan stood close— too close by an onlookers standards—his frame a shield against the world, yet his eyes darted nervously toward the flickering torchlight at the corridor's end. Your hand cradled his face, thumb tracing the rough stubble along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles like a bowstring ready to snap. He was your knight, your secret flame in this web of alliances and duties, "But Princess," Dunk murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your palm, laced with that boyish hesitation he could never fully shed. "If someone were to see.." His large hand covered yours, squeezing gently, but he couldn't hide the way his body leaned into your touch, betraying the hunger beneath his caution.
You met his gaze, eyes boring into his with unyielding fire. "Then they can see," you had whispered, your words a defiant vow that hung heavy in the air between you, smile creeping on your lips. In that moment, the truth burned clear; no love like this could bloom from the cold beds of lords or the volatile arms of a prince. Aerion's passion was fire and fury, a dragon's claim that scorched without warming the soul. But Dunk, your Dunk, offered something deeper, a quiet strength that made your heart ache with belonging. You didn't want to share it, this raw connection forged in hidden corners. Your lips brushed his in a fleeting kiss, tasting salt and promise, before you pulled him deeper into the shadows, your fingers intertwining with his as you led him toward the hidden chamber above.
—
Time blurred in the haze of hurried steps and muffled breaths, the archway's tension carrying you both to the sanctuary of your private room. Hours had slipped away since that defiant exchange, the moon now high and casting silvery beams through the narrow windows, but the fire in your veins burned hotter than ever. You lay sprawled across the wide bed, linens tangled around your legs like lovers' knots, your gown long since pushed up to your waist and forgotten in the heat of the moment. The bedposts loomed, draped in silk and mesh that swayed gently with the draft, enclosing you in a cocoon of intimacy amid the ever-present danger of discovery.
Dunk hovered above you, his heavy hands braced at your thighs, spreading them wider with a grip that was equal parts tender and possessive. The air was thick with the scent of your arousal, mingling with the faint musk of his sweat-slicked skin. He was shirtless now, his broad chest heaving, muscles rippling under scarred skin from years of tourneys and trials. Those blue eyes, wide with that perpetual awe, locked onto yours as if you were the only star in his night sky. "My lady," he breathed, voice roughened by desire, the lilt that shook his voice. Even after all these stolen nights, he looked at you as if it were the first time— wanting and unhurried.
His mouth descended on you slowly, starting at your neck. Lips brushed soft kisses along the column of your throat, each one a spark that made your pulse thunder. He nipped gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear, teeth grazing enough to draw a shiver from deep in your core. You arched beneath him, fingers threading through his tousled hair, tugging him closer until his weight pinned you deliciously to the mattress. His breath was hot against your ear, a ragged whisper of your name that sent hairs raising across your arms.
He shifted lower, his callused hands sliding up your sides and wrapping you around his arm, thumbs circling the undersides of your breasts before cupping them fully. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, lingering at the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat fluttered wildly. When his lips closed over the swell of one breast, he sucked the nipple into his mouth with a hungry groan, tongue swirling around the hardened peak in slow, deliberate circles. The wet heat of him pulled a soft moan from your lips, your back bowing off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. He lavished attention on the sensitive bud, flicking his tongue tip against it gently soothing it with broad laps.
But he was patient, intending to take his time so long as he could have you, drawing out the build-up until you trembled with need. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching the nipple between rough fingers, rolling it until it pebbled further under his touch. He switched sides, sucking the neglected peak into his mouth while his thumb teased the first, the dual assault making your thighs clench around his hips. "Gods, Princess," he murmured against your skin, voice muffled and thick, his stubble scraping deliciously over your ribs as he kissed lower, tongue dipping into your navel, circling the soft skin there before nipping at your hip bone.
Your arousal throbbed insistently now, pussy slick and aching, folds swollen with the slow burn he'd ignited, every layer shed away. Dunk's hands gripped your thighs again, parting them with firm pressure, exposing you fully to his gaze. And he paused, drinking in the sight— your cunt glistening in the candlelight, clenching around nothing. "Gods, you are so beautiful," he rumbled, a small grin flashing with the hunger in his eyes. He leaned at last, pressing you deeper to the bed to place a kiss to your inner thigh, high and teasing, his breath ghosting over your core, so close it made you whimper. The anticipation stretched taut, your hips lifting in silent plea, but he held you down with one massive hand splayed across your lower belly, his strength unyielding.
"Slowly, love. Let me taste you first." His words vibrated against your skin as he started with feather-light kisses along the curves of your groin, moving to each side of your hips, the tension building inch by torturous inch. His head bowed to you, tongue flicked out and tracing the outer edge of your pussy lips without mercy, lapping at the slickness there, narrowly avoiding your clit and savouring you. You bucked against his hold, a frustrated whine escaping, and he chuckled low, the sound rumbling through you. Finally, he relented, his mouth sealing over your folds in a deep, possessive kiss.
The knight ate you out like a man possessed, tongue plunging into your entrance first, thrusting in short, insistent strokes that fucked your pussy with wet, obscene sounds. He groaned into you, the vibration humming straight to your core as he lapped upward, gathering your juices on broad, flat drags as you shifted in his hold chasing it. His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, pulling the sensitive nub between them while his tongue lashed in quick flicks. "Fuck, my love.." his voice was muffled, voice gravelly and muffled as he buried his face deeper, nose nudging your clit while he devoured you.
And he stayed there, alternating angles with masterful skill even you hadn't known, not precision, but passion. Long, slow licks from hole to clit that made your toes curl, circling rapid around the bundle of nerves that had you gasping his name. You reached down, pulling at the hand grabbed at your thigh, aching for more you tugged it slightly, right to your core, and through the lines of your dampened hair your eyes found each other. I know. His hand slid up, two thick fingers pushing into your soaked pussy, stretching you with a burn that bordered on bliss and he curled them upward, stroking that spot inside with each pump, syncing the motion with the relentlessness of his mouth. Your free hand fisted the sheets, body trembling as the pressure built, coiling tighter with every swirl. Dunk's other arm banded across your hips, pinning you as you ground against his face, chasing the edge shamelessly. For you, but he couldn't help the rush that heated in his pants from seeing you like this alone.
He added a third finger, scissoring them to open you wider, his tongue never ceasing its carnal attack— dipping back to fuck your hole alongside his digits, then returning to suck your clit until you swore you could feel the whole room buzzing. The room filled with your moans echoing off the stone walls, the mesh drapes whispering like conspirators. "Come on my tongue, Princess," he whined out, as both command and promise, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal, before diving in again with renewed fervor. His fingers pumped faster as you groaned, deep, tongue lashing without quarter, and it shattered you, your orgasm ripping through in crashing waves, your cunt clenching around his fingers as you cried out, flooding at his mouth with release.
Dunk lapped through it all, drawing out every tremor until you were boneless and oversensitive, his jaw already damp and glistening, pressing a soft kiss right to you as you twitched. Only then did he rise, licking at his mouth with the back of his hand, that boyish awe returning to his eyes amid the sated fire. He looked to you as you nodded through eyelashes, and he nodded back to himself, shedding his breeches in one swift motion, freeing his thick cock. It was large and veiny, slapping red and heavy against his abdomen as he crawled over to you, chest towering at your own. Positioning himself at your entrance, he teased your folds with the broad head, coating himself in your wetness. "Are you sure.." He flicked to you, finger reaching at your lulled expression, inching you to look up at him just a bit, and your chest swelled as you exhaled, wrapping your arms at his neck, "I'am sure.." Your voice wobbled, but not with uncertainty, with want, soft violets glazed over in his warmth.
He hummed, nose knocking to yours as his head tilted, cowering down into you as he pushed himself in slowly as he could, "I'll go slow.." and it was slow, inch by thick inch he was fearfully aware of and of hurting you, and the stretch of his fullness made you both groan. His hands framed your face as he kissed you deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue just as he bottomed out, sitting inside you and waiting for a response, meeting with your moan, he swallowed it. Then he began to thrust, deep and claiming, each snap of his hips sealing the forbidden bond that no prince or court could break.
He groaned low in his chest, burying his face further in the crook of your shoulder, his hips rocking forward in a measured rhythm that built like a gathering tide. "Gods, you feel like heaven," he whispered, one hand cupping gently at your hip again, thumb rubbing at the flesh, the wet slide of his cock filling you completely. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, nails reaching to dig into the muscles of his back as pleasure coiled tight in your core. He kissed you then, deep and unhurried, tongues tangling in a dance that spoke of whispered promises and forbidden dreams— his awkward charm melting into something fierce and protective, his body shielding yours even in this act of love.
Your lips and tongue wrapped at his own, connecting him and pulling him down to you, and his pace quickened, thrusts growing firmer, and hips snapping against yours with every slap that echoed softly in the chamber. You moaned into his mouth, your hole clenching around him, slick and hot, the friction sending sparks racing up your spine. Duncan's breath hitched, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit in clumsy but earnest circles, drawing a whimper from your lips. "I love you," the words tumbled out haphazardly, his cheeks flushing even as he drove into you harder, chasing the edge together. Sweat beaded on his brow, his broad frame trembling with restraint, every movement a testament to the depth of his devotion— the way he held you like you were the only light in his world, ever clumsy in his tenderness but unyielding in his care.
"And I love you.."
The door burst open without warning just as you and he closed your eyes, foreheads clasped together in sweat and lust, the heavy oak slamming against the wall with a crack that shattered the intimacy like glass. Both of your heads snapped up, tugging at the sheets to cover yourselves, tracking the way to the door you groaned hiding behind, but the man above you saw it all.
Aerion.
Your very own brother, the Prince, stood in the threshold, his silhouette framed by the torchlight from the corridor, violet eyes narrowing into slits of fury as the scene before him registered. His silver hair was disheveled, as if he'd stormed through the halls in a rage, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the Valyrian steel dagger at his belt glinting ominously. The air turned to ice, the warmth of the chamber that was, fleeing under his gaze. Duncan reacted on instinct, pulling out of you with a startled curse and rolling to shield your body with his own. He scrambled up, his naked form towering protectively as he positioned himself between you and the intruder, one arm outstretched to keep you behind him while he snatched a sheet to drape haphazardly over your exposed skin. His face was a mask of awkward alarm— cheeks burning red, and eyes wide like a boy caught stealing— but there was steel in his stance, broad shoulders squared, fists clenching at his sides.
Aerion had stopped short there in the threshold, eyes wide at the man beside you, in your chambers.
He hadn’t meant to, and of that you’re certain, his pride carries him most places like a blade held high, though to you was somewhere he frequented, but whatever he sees when he looks at you now, standing too close to a hedge knight of all, it stills him. Only for a heartbeat, long enough for Dunk to turn. And he doesn't bow this time, he straightens instead, shoulders filling the space like a wall that’s decided it won’t move and his hand flexes at his side. Not reaching for a sword. Not yet, just… there, ready.
Aerion’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless.
“So this is what you’ve lowered yourself to,” he says, eyes cutting to you around the figure, wrapped in your sheets barely covering your breasts. And that’s the cruelty of it. “A hedge knight who smells of horse and sweat. Gods, sister— have you no shame?”
The words land as he means them to, ugly and deliberate. And without thinking himself, Dunk steps forward before you can speak.
“That’s enough,” his , voice low, steady, dangerous in its restraint, uncaring for insults thrown his, but not to you. “You don’t speak to her that way.”
Aerion laughs softly as looks at Dunk now, taking in the size of him, the way his shadow falls over you without swallowing you whole. “How gallant,” Aerion replies. “Be careful, knight. You’ll start to believe she’s yours to defend.”
Dunk doesn’t blink, but his lip startles, minding his words in ways even he doesn't want to.
“She doesn’t need owning to be defended,” he says. “And she.. certainly doesn’t need you.”
Aerion laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the chamber, but he made no move to draw his weapon. Instead, he stopped at the foot of the bed, leaning in with a predatory grace, his eyes locking onto yours over Duncan's shoulder. "Oh, but I do own her, ser. The betrothal was sealed in blood and fire, your lowborn seed changes nothing. Touch her again, and I'll have your head on a spike, paraded through the streets for the smallfolk to pelt with filth." His voice dropped to a whisper, meant for you alone, laced with dark promise. "And you, my sweet betrothed... remember your place. Defy me, and watch your tall knight burn."
Duncan's jaw tightened, and your eyes grow wide as you go to step forward, but he stops you, his fighting with himself hardening into resolve as he shifted to block Aerion's view more fully, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides. "She's her own woman, Your Grace," he said, the words tumbling out in that haphazard rush, protective fire burning through the shield of his shyness. "Betrothal or no, you don't own her heart— or her choices." He stood taller, chest heaving, ready to throw himself between you and any harm, even if it meant facing a prince's blade.
And that does it.
Whatever Aerion had planned, whatever sharp little scene he’d rehearsed, dies right there on his tongue, that glare falling to defeat behind his eyes— for now. His jaw tightens and eyes flick to you once more, searching for something he doesn’t find. He scoffs, smooth as silk, wounded as pride ever is.
“Enjoy your playacting,” he says coldly. “I have no interest in watching you debase yourself.”
And then— he leaves.
No storm or other threat, just the door closing far more quietly than it should. And the silence left is thick and heavy, Duncan exhaled shakily, turning back to you with wide eyes, his protective stance softening as he gathered you into his arms once more. "Are you all right?" voice thick with worry, his large hands gentle as they stroked your hair, like he’s been holding his breath since Aerion arrived. He turns to you then, eyes searching your face, concerned and trying to blind himself of the way he'd done all of that naked. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have—”
You step closer instead, close enough to feel the heat still on him, hands coming up to the centre of his chest, resting right at the dip over the many scars that had been formed. Your feet padded across the cold stone, sheets falling away at your feet as you pushed you both back to the bed, he listened quietly, allowing heavy feet to be led to the mattress until his calves hit the wood. He sat then as you stood between his knees, bracing your legs either side to straddle him, both completely bare, his cock laid beneath your core as you cupped his face. "I do love you.. and I wouldn't let those things be done to you." He huffed, face falling into your hold, steady hands coming to rest at your middle. "Well, I don't think it be easy to go against a prince.." His voice faltered, a wall up not against you,but against the reality, the only he'd gladly take if it meant having you.
But your hands pulled him up again, shuffling closer into his grip, placing a deep kiss onto his lips it may as well have been burned, "I wont.." And you were serious, no matter the situation, how frowned upon or dangerous, you'd meant ever word. And from your look, your tone, the way you held him tighter, Dunk knew it, and he held onto it with a deep breathe, his head knocking at your temple once more with every bit of reverence.
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a continuation to Growing Strong series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, Iron throne kink, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas.
a/n: Bonus smut fic because I felt bad for ending the series with the last chapter not featuring much of Aerion and his wife.
The Iron Throne dominated the great hall even in emptiness, a monstrous tangle of fused blades and jagged edges that climbed toward the vaulted ceiling like a frozen explosion of steel. Torches guttered in their sconces, casting restless shadows across the dragon skulls that lined the walls. The hour was late; the last petitioners had been dismissed hours ago, the Kingsguard posted outside the great doors with strict instructions that the King was not to be disturbed.
Aerion Targaryen, first of his name, sat sprawled across the throne with the careless ease of a man who had never once been cut by the blades that had drawn blood from a dozen kings before him. His legs were spread, one arm draped over a melted sword-hilt, his crown tilted slightly askew on his silver-gold head.
He looked, you thought as you crossed the empty hall toward him, unfairly youthful. The years of fighting had kept his body hard and lean, the muscles of his arms and shoulders still evident beneath the silk of his doublet. His face was unlined, the pale Valyrian skin still smooth despite the sun he had taken during campaigns. Eventually, the years would catch up. But not yet.
"You summoned me, Your Grace," you said, stopping at the base of the throne's steps. Your voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space.
Aerion's mouth curved into that slow, knowing smile that you had spent years learning to read. "I did." His violet eyes tracked over you with open appreciation. "You look tired."
"I have been reviewing trade agreements with the Free Cities since midday."
"Then you should sit." He patted his thigh. "Come."
You raised an eyebrow. "The Iron Throne is not a loveseat."
"The Iron Throne is whatever I say it is. I am the king." His smile widened. "Come, my sweet rose. Do not make me repeat myself."
You cast a glance toward the great doors. "The Kingsguard..."
"Have been told we are not to be disturbed for any reason short of a city burning." He extended his hand toward you, fingers beckoning. "I have been waiting for you."
You knew every shade of his moods. Tonight, he was restless. Tonight, he wanted you close.
You climbed the steps.
The throne's blades whispered against your skirts as you ascended, the metal worn smooth in places by generations of royal backsides. When you reached him, he caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap.
"This is highly improper," you murmured, even as your body settled against his.
"What good is being able to sit the Iron Throne," he replied, his breath warm against your ear, "if a man cannot fuck his own wife on it?"
"Charming."
"I thought so."
His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you back against his chest. For a moment, he simply held you there, his chin resting on your shoulder, his heartbeat steady against your spine. The great hall stretched before you, empty and echoing, the torches painting everything in flickering shades of gold and shadow.
"You have been thinking about Maeron," you said quietly.
"I am always thinking about Maeron. He's my son."
"Specifically about his marriage."
Aerion's arms tightened fractionally. "We need to discuss it. He is past twenty, and he has no bride. No betrothal. No prospects that we have formally considered. The lords are beginning to talk."
"The lords always talk."
"They talk more loudly when the heir to the Iron Throne remains unwed." He paused. "I have received three ravens this week alone from houses offering daughters. The Lannisters sent a portrait."
You made a dismissive sound. "The Lannisters."
"Painted rather flatteringly, I thought. Though I suspect the artist took liberties."
"You are not seriously considering a Lannister."
Aerion's chest shook with a silent laugh. "I am not. But I wanted to hear you say it."
You shifted on his lap, turning slightly so you could meet his eyes. "I do not want lions in this family. Not in our blood. Not in our halls. Casterly Rock has spent generations buying influence with gold and calling it loyalty. The moment we show weakness, they will be the first to pounce."
"I am aware."
"They betrayed the rightful Queen once. They would do it again."
"I am also aware." His thumb traced idle circles on your hip. "I am not arguing with you, sweet rose. I am agreeing. The Lannisters are out."
That gave you pause. You had expected more resistance, not because Aerion was particularly fond of House Lannister, but because he enjoyed provoking you. "And the Hightowers?"
His expression soured. "Absolutely not. Oldtown thinks too highly of itself. The Hightowers have always believed they should have more influence than they do. The Citadel is in their pocket, the Faith bows to their whims, and they would use a marriage to our son as a lever to pry open the crown's authority." His voice hardened. "I did not bleed for this throne only to hand it to a pack of book-reading schemers in grey robes."
You smiled faintly. "So we are agreed. No Lannisters. No Hightowers."
"Agreed."
"That narrows the field considerably."
"It does." He pressed a kiss to the curve of your neck. "But we are not without options. The Velaryons have daughters."
"Cousins, technically. Distant ones."
"The blood of Old Valyria runs in their veins. It would strengthen the line."
You considered. "True. But Corlys Velaryon's ambitions were legendary. If we elevate them again, they may grow…expectant."
"Expectations can be managed."
"Can they?" You turned further on his lap, hooking your legs over the arm of the throne so you could face him more directly. "Or will our son spend his reign fending off Velaryon cousins who believe they are entitled to more than they have been given?"
Aerion studied your face. His hands had moved to your waist, steadying you against him. "You have someone else in mind."
"I have possibilities. Nothing certain."
"Speak."
You hesitated. "The Starks have daughters."
Aerion blinked. "The Starks."
"Why do you look surprised?"
"Because Winterfell is a thousand leagues from King's Landing and the Starks have never married into the Targaryen line. Not once. Not since the Conquest."
"Perhaps it is time." You placed your hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. "The North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, but it is also the most remote. The most isolated. The Starks keep to themselves, and the realm has allowed them to do so for too long. If we bind them to us by blood, we secure their loyalty in a way that no oath ever could."
Aerion was quiet for a long moment. His fingers traced the embroidery at your bodice, following the pattern of golden roses stitched across green silk.
"The North is not like the other kingdoms," he said at last. "They keep the old gods. They do not bend easily. A Stark bride would find King's Landing alien, and our son's court might find her alien in turn."
"Maeron would not mind. He has always been curious about the North."
"Maeron is curious about everything. That is not the same as being suited for a Northern bride."
"Are you opposed?"
He tilted his head, considering. "I am not opposed. But I am cautious. The Starks are honorable to a fault, that much is true. An honorable ally is valuable. But an honorable ally who feels slighted or overlooked can become an honorable enemy, and honorable enemies are one the most dangerous kind." He paused. "Still. It is worth exploring. I will send ravens to Winterfell. Discreet ones."
You nodded slowly. "There is also the matter of Dorne."
"Dorne." Aerion's expression flickered. "The Martells?"
"They have already been bound to the Iron Throne through marriage. A second marriage would reinforce that bond."
"It would also," Aerion said slowly, "remind the other kingdoms that Dorne is favored. That could cause friction."
"Friction is inevitable no matter who we choose. The question is which friction we can best manage."
Aerion was silent again. His hands had stilled on your waist, his violet eyes distant. You recognized that look, the calculating stillness that came over him when he was weighing possibilities, measuring outcomes in the privacy of his own mind.
"You are fretting," he said finally.
"I am planning."
"You are fretting." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You worry that we will choose poorly and doom our son to a miserable marriage. You worry that the lords will object to whoever we select. You worry that time is slipping away and every day without a betrothal is a day of uncertainty that our enemies can exploit."
"Someone has to worry. You seem determined to be cavalier about the whole affair."
"I am not cavalier. I am confident." His hands slid down to your hips, his grip tightening. "Maeron will marry well because we will ensure he marries well. We have built a dynasty from blood and fire and sheer stubborn refusal to lose. We will not falter now over wedding negotiations."
His voice had dropped, taking on that lower register that you knew intimately. The shift was sudden but not unexpected, Aerion had always moved between moods like a storm changing direction, unpredictable and consuming.
"We were discussing politics," you reminded him.
"We were. Now we are finished discussing politics."
"Are we?"
His hands moved to the laces of his breeches, working them loose with practiced efficiency. "We have eliminated the Lannisters. We have eliminated the Hightowers. We have identified potential matches among the Velaryons, the Starks, and the Martells. Tomorrow, I will instruct the small council to begin formal inquiries. Tonight..." He freed himself from the constraints of his breeches, already hard and straining upward against his stomach. "...tonight, I require something else."
Your breath caught slightly. The sight of him like this: arrogant, demanding, utterly unashamed of his own desire, sent a familiar heat coiling through your belly.
"Here?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
"Here." His hands bunched in your skirts, dragging the fabric upward. "I told you. What good is being able to sit the Iron Throne if a man cannot fuck his own wife on it?"
"This is a desecration of the seat of power."
"This is a celebration of the seat of power." His grin was sharp and wicked. "Lift your hips."
You obeyed, and he pushed your skirts up around your waist, baring your thighs to the cool air of the great hall. His fingers found the cleft between your legs, testing, and he made a satisfied sound low in his throat.
"Already wet," he murmured. "You argue with me about Starks and Velaryons while your body prepares itself for me. I have always admired that about you, the ability to multitask."
"Don't be crass, Aerion."
"Make me."
You kissed him instead, your fingers tangling in his silver-gold hair. He groaned into your mouth and pulled you forward, positioning you over him with the same decisiveness he brought to everything. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and then he was pulling you down onto him.
The stretch of him inside you, familiar and overwhelming all at once, drew a gasp from your throat. Aerion's head fell back against the throne's unforgiving steel, his eyes fluttering half-closed.
"Gods," he breathed. "Every time. Every single time."
He did not wait for you to adjust. He never did. His hands clamped onto your hips and he drove up into you with the kind of hard, fast rhythm that was his signature, incapable of complete gentleness when it came to you, incapable of patience or restraint. The Iron Throne was beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you thought that this was obscene, this was sacrilegious, this was exactly the kind of thing that Aerion Targaryen would do and damn the consequences.
"Look at me," he commanded, and you realized your eyes had closed. You opened them to find his gaze burning into yours, fierce and utterly undone. "There. Yes. I want you to see where you are. I want you to remember."
"Remember what?"
"That you are the Queen. That this throne is ours. That no one, no Lannister, no Hightower, no Blackfyre pretender, can take this from us." His hips snapped upward, driving himself deeper, and you cried out despite yourself. "That's it. Let them hear. Let the ghosts of every dead king know that this throne still serves its purpose."
"You are..." You gasped as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "...entirely mad."
"Possibly." He thrust harder. "Do you care?"
"No," you admitted, and it was true. You had stopped caring about his madness years ago. You had learned to navigate it, to temper it, to love it even.
Because beneath the fire, the fury and the insatiable need to claim and conquer, there was a man who had slit a sorceress' throat to save your life. A man who had refused to sire more children because he would not risk losing you again. A man who, for all his flaws, loved you with a terrifying, all-consuming devotion that had never once wavered.
His rhythm was growing erratic now, his breath coming in harsh pants against your throat. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but you did not mind. You never minded. The marks he left on you were reminders of his passion, his possession, his refusal to let you go.
"Close," he gritted out. "Are you..."
"Almost."
He shifted his angle slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies to find the pearl of your pleasure, and the added stimulation was enough to tip you over the edge. You shattered around him with a broken cry, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, driving into you one final time and spilling himself deep inside with a groan that echoed off the walls.
You slumped against his chest, your forehead resting in the curve of his neck, your breath mingling with his in the torchlit darkness. His arms wrapped around you, holding you in place, his cock still buried inside you as if he could not bear to separate.
"We should not have done that," you murmured eventually.
"We absolutely should have. We should do it again tomorrow."
"Unbelievable."
"You love me." He pressed a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. "Say it."
"I love you."
"Sweeter than summer wine." He shifted beneath you, and you felt him stir again, not yet fully hard but recovering with the swiftness that had always characterized his appetites. "Again?"
"We need to discuss Maeron's bride."
"We discussed her. We have options. Options can wait until morning." His hips rolled lazily, pushing his softening length deeper into the mess he had made inside you. "Right now, I want my wife."
"You have her."
"I want her again."
You laughed despite yourself, a soft, breathless sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You will end me."
"Never." His voice dropped, the playfulness fading into something more serious. "You are the only thing that keeps me alive, sweet rose. You and Maeron. Everything else is just noise."
You cupped his face in your hands, studying the familiar planes of his features: the sharp cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the violet eyes that still burned with the same intensity they had possessed when you first met him. He looked young in the firelight. Young and fierce and utterly yours.
"The Starks," you said softly. "I think we should pursue the Starks first."
He blinked at the sudden return to politics, then laughed, a genuine, startled sound. "Here? Now? While I am still inside you?"
"What better time? You are relaxed. Agreeable."
"I am many things. Agreeable is not one of them."
"Agree to the Starks."
He studied your face, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. "You truly believe this is the right path."
You paused. "The Starks are not like the other great houses. They do not scheme. They do not plot. They keep their word, even when it costs them. That is the kind of blood we want in our line. Blood that remembers honor."
Aerion nodded slowly.
"I will send ravens to Winterfell in the morning," he said. "Discreet inquiries only. No formal offers until we know more about the daughters and their temperaments."
"That is all I ask."
"No," he said, shifting beneath you and beginning to harden again inside you, "it is not. You also ask..." He thrust up gently. "...for my attention." Another thrust. "My devotion." Another. "My seed."
"I have all of those already."
"You do." He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours. "And you will have them again. Right now."
The great hall echoed with the sound of your mingled laughter and gasps as he began to move once more.
a/n: Can you guys tell I am not ready to say goodbye to Aerion and Lady Tyrell.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
summary — carter hasn't slept in nearly two full days, and with another twelve hour shift in front of him he's not about to start now. at least that's his plan before he's dragged into an on-call room by the coworker who's been the cause of his sleeplessness.
word count — 2.6k words
18+mdni — semi-public sex (they're in an on-call room), carter is severely sleep deprived but he wants it promise, oral (m!receiving), mentions of m!masturbation and wet dreams, reader uses she/her pronouns, is referred to as a girl by carter, and wears makeup and skirts, hand-holding because this isn't a love-quinn smut fic without those guys holding hands
note — back on my bullshit hope y'all like this :))) based on this ask <333
Carter’s not quite sure how he got here.
As in, he doesn’t remember coming into work. He has to assume he drove, his car keys are in the pocket of his coat. He has a cup of coffee in his hand that’s cold and untouched, and based on the schedule he’s been here twenty-two hours and still has another fourteen to go.
You’ve been watching him for the past forty minutes. You have your own cases, your own traumas and triages, your own patients, so it’s only intermittent. But whenever you and Carter are in the same room, your eyes keep finding him. You’ve only been here ten hours, but when you left work yesterday he was just arriving, and it doesn’t look like he’s even sat down since then.
There was a Cubs game that night; for some reason you’re always well busier on home game nights. A lot of the time it’s people getting really drunk and deciding they don’t want to go into work the next day and knowing an ER trip will get them out of it. It finally seems to have died down now, it’s Saturday and a surprising amount of people don’t know the ER is even open on weekends. You’ve had a steady flow of patients for the last couple of hours but nothing insane. Greene is passed out in room seven, Carol’s slumped over behind the desk with Jerry keeping watch, and once you get a 19 year old frat boy who “drank something that isn’t usually a drink” discharged home to his very angry parents, you think you might follow suit.
You’ve been watching Carter stand at central behind Carol’s chair, watching him lift the mug to his lips and then get distracted by something on his clipboard. He’s swaying on his feet and Jerry keeps grabbing him by the shoulder to check on him.
“Alright, Carter,” you drop your file on the desk at the nurse’s station, fed up with watching him not drink his coffee. You’d made it for him almost three hours ago, pressed the mug into his hand with a gentle ‘you okay?’ that he hadn’t responded to. You take the chart off him and put it down on top of your own pile. You haven’t had a new ambulance drop for almost forty-five minutes; he clearly needs rest and there isn’t a better time for it. The on-call room is free, you shove him inside.
“What are you-” his words are clumsy, and he has to blink a few times until he realises it’s you and not Benton. “Hey, hey, stop manhandling me!” He pulls his arm free and regrets it almost immediately. Your hands are soft and steady, and he likes being shoved around by you. He’s just so fucking tired, he hasn’t even stopped to think about how good you look tonight. You don’t dress up - you’re an R3 in the ER, there’s no point - but there are some days you do your hair a little different or your lips or eyelids shine under the fluoros. Some shifts he can’t take his eyes off your mouth whenever you’re speaking to him. “Hey, sweeth-”
“Go to bed,” you grab one end of his stethoscope, ignoring the pet name that only ever slips out when he’s tired (that’s just proving your point), and yank it off his neck. You hang it over the overhead. He stands there. “Now.”
He says your name, so soft it’s almost slurred. God, he’s been ignoring you all night, and for what? You’re such a knockout. One of these days he’s finally going to take you out, see you outside of this godforsaken hospital. “I’ve got a CT to schedule-”
“Carter,” you sound angry. He hates when you sound angry; has made it his mission the last three years working together to have it not be directed at him. He’s done a pretty good job, not to toot his own horn. “Go to bed. You haven’t slept since you got here.”
He nods placatingly; he’s almost finished his shift anyway, he can go home and crash in his own bed. Think of you sufficiently before he drifts off, he’s off for four days. He’s got your number - has everyone’s numbers, he has to remind himself, it’s not creepy - might see if he can work up the courage to call you. He’s seen the schedule, he knows after your twenty-four hour shift you have two full days off.
“I’m at work,” he feels more like he’s reminding himself than you. “I can’t just lay down and sleep, my CT-”
“I ordered it for you,” you soothe him, hands up by his chest. If he steps forward you’ll be touching him; his feet stay rooted on the ground. “For Mr Hill? I ordered it, he’s getting it done now, Lewis has said she can keep an eye on him for a couple of hours while you get some rest. Please?”
He’s busy, he’s working. He doesn’t want to go to sleep because he’ll think of you and that’s embarrassing when you’ll be the one pushing open the door in a few hours to come wake him up. He hasn’t been able to sleep very well lately, and if he’s just going to be laying there and dissociating, he might as well do it standing up.
“Sweetheart, I’m fine,” the endearment always makes him cringe hours after he says it. It’s a HR violation probably, but he doesn’t mind the way you smile at him when it slips out. “I’m almost done-” you both know damn well that’s a lie. Maybe he doesn’t, with how tired he is, but you certainly do. You both get off at the same time, and you know he was here for twelve hours longer than you’ve been.
You shove him then, towards the bed. He stumbles back, the backs of his knees hitting the bed and sending him straight to a sitting position. You’re muttering to yourself, and he catches the words ‘stubborn’ and ‘annoying’ and 'do everything myself' as you step forward to close the gap.
He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t remember what, but is interrupted by a metal clink noise. Your hands are on his belt, unbuckling it with one hand and using your other hand to brace yourself on the bed beside his thigh.
Carter says your name again as you tug the leather harshly, undoing it, and you frown. “What happened to sweetheart?” The sound of his zipper coming down bounces off the walls and suddenly things are moving very fast. He’s probably asleep standing up and he’ll wake up with a boner and a cry of your name, standing at the nurse’s station.
He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so they hover awkwardly in the air. He’s not quite sure what to do with himself, never thought he’d be put in this situation. Don’t get him wrong, he’s imagined this a dozen times. But in his imagination he’s usually a little more in control of the situation. He’s coaxing you into his lap, he’s got his hand down the pants of your scrubs, or maybe you’re wearing that pretty long floral skirt he saw you in downtown once. He’d had to rub one out in a bar bathroom after seeing you from across the street. Not his finest moment.
Instead, you’re reaching in with your ever-soft hands, tugging down his slacks by the thighs and looking up at him like you love him. Your knees touch the hospital linoleum floor, and you settle on your haunches. “You gonna talk to me, Carter, or are you gonna keep pretending like I’m not here?”
“Still don’t believe you are,” he rasps. Your nails drag down his bare thigh, pants shoved down just enough to show the tent in his boxers. You’re honestly a little disappointed; you’d been hoping you’d get to toy with him a little. Play around, get him hard. He’s already fully erect without you even touching his cock yet. “F-fuck, gonna wake up at home with a hard-on.”
You bite your glossed bottom lip and let out a breathy laugh that causes his cock to twitch. The sight makes you shift on your knees. “You dream about me?”
He nods, trying his best to keep his chin ducked down to make eye contact with you. You have such pretty eyes, he could mix the colour from memory. He’s torn between wanting to pull you up, to kiss you hard and to tell you just how much you populate his thoughts, and just wanting you to fucking touch him already. “Yeah, sweetheart, dream about you.”
You reach for the waistband of his underwear and lean forward, nose pressing against his clothed cock. You press an open-mouthed kiss to his erection through his boxers right before you move the fabric out from underneath your lips. The waistband hangs underneath his heavy length and you have to sit back and admire it for a moment.
He’s long, pretty and pink like the flush he gets when you call him doctor, and he’s leaking precum already. This is better, you decide resolutely, wrapping your hand around the base - and ignoring how much doesn’t fit in your hand - (you have no idea how you’re eventually going to get that inside you, but that’s a problem for later) sure, you didn’t get to toy with him all soft and willing in your hand; he’s desperate for you.
Carter feels your breath brush his cock, most likely unintentionally, and lets out a groan. He’s more inclined to believe this is real because if he were dreaming he’s pretty sure he would’ve creamed his pants by now. You’re never usually such a tease in his dreams; he likes this better.
“Please touch me, sweetheart.”
You don’t realise how long you’ve spent admiring his cock until he’s squirming under your hands, aching from how hard he is. You decide to relent and stop teasing him, if only so you can finally get your mouth on him. The sound he makes when you wrap your lips around the tip of his cock is enough to make your panties dampen.
Carter watches you squirm, blood rushing straight to the head of his cock. You’ve always been perfect, god, look at you, but now? He’s about one second away from ending up on his knees himself. Either to propose or to bury his face between your thighs, he’ll decide in the moment.
You kiss the tip and all he can focus on is how soft your lips are, sticky with gloss and his arousal, hot and gentle. You lick the precum off and he groans, one hand coming to rest on the curve between your shoulder and your neck and the other grasping onto your hair at the back of your scalp. The pull makes you whine, sending vibrations right up his shaft.
He thinks he might just catch flame from how hot he feels, you holding the rest of his cock in your hands. Carter worries he’s going to have to beg for you to touch him when you finally take him deeper in your mouth.
“Fuck,” it rips low from his throat; he’s very conscious of how sound travels in these rooms. You suck all the spit to the back of your mouth and the sensation makes him whimper. You’d always imagined he would. “Fuck, sweet girl, feels so good.” The hand on your neck is gentle, running lines up your throat with his thumb. The other one less so, grabbing your hair so hard his knuckles are turning white. The praise makes you hum appreciatively. “So fucking good to me, aren’t you?”
You duck your head down, taking him deeper in your mouth and he has to throw his head back so he doesn’t cum down your throat prematurely. You’ve got a rhythm down that draws his mind blank.
You swallow around his length, pumping the part that doesn’t fit in your mouth in your hand. Your spare hand grasps at his thigh and he lets go of your hair to take it in his own. You’re gonna fucking kill him, you’re so warm, so wet, and this is just your mouth. He’s going to make you cum so fucking hard as soon as he can string a sentence together.
He’s close, embarrassingly so, and he squeezes your hand. He breathes your name, spreading his legs so you can move closer to him. “God, sweetheart, you’re so fucking pretty. Gonna make me cum.” His entire body feels hot, the noises coming out of his mouth are downright embarrassing and it’s taking great effort to not be quiet enough to ensure he still has a job when you’re done. “Fuck, pretty girl.” My pretty girl.
You pull back, a line of spit connecting you and him, and look up at him through wet lashes. “Are you gonna cum, Carter?” You’re working your hand up and down his cock, running your thumb over his slit and revelling in the way it makes his hips buck. “Close?”
He nods and you suck him back in. Carter squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back. So pretty, his sweet girl, holding his hand while sucking him off. Making him feel so good, you always know exactly what he needs. He’s going to get you a rock the size of the fucking moon, you won’t be able to wear it in the ER in case you blind someone but you’ll show it off to all the other doctors - that you’re his perfect girl.
It’s a combination of things - the way you move forward and lose yourself, gagging slightly on his length. Your cheeks are wet, you’re not crying but you’re close to it. Your hand is wrapped around him, moving in sync with that insane tongue of yours. He comes with a pant of your name, unable to think of a single other word, a white hot orgasm that hits straight at the back of your throat and still manages to pool at your lips. The sight of his cum on the corner of your mouth almost makes him hard again. Your mouth is still working on him, and when you feel the twitch it spurs you on more.
He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck, fuck, sweet girl, too much. Too much.” He uses the hand on your neck to gently coax you off his cock. You rise on shaky legs and he gets his hands on your waist. Carter kisses you gently, shifting on the bed. “Can I make you feel good, sweetheart?”
You kiss him back, both of you unbothered at the taste of him on your tongue. You’re about to nod, to whine, to hum, to anything. Your pager goes off.
“Fuck,” he groans.
You let him kiss you for just another second before you pull away to check the page. His hands are still on your waist, thumbs rubbing your hips, desperate to just touch you. “Go to sleep,” is all you say. You straighten yourself for a moment before pulling open the door.
Carter lays down, shoving himself back into his pants. If anyone other than you came in it’d be rough to explain. He’s warm just at the memory of your touch, and the thin hospital mattress has never felt more comfortable. When you come to check on him five minutes later he’s fully knocked out, sprawled on the mattress with one leg hanging off the bed.
And fourteen hours later, when you’re both off shift, he’s going to repay the favour.
summary: It's been a long day for both of you but as the night sets in, Dunk still won't pay you any attention. You have zero doubt of his affection, but it's high time you convince your knight he needn't always be so gentle with you.
tags/warnings: smut, fem!reader, handjob, rough(ish) sex, riding, moody!dunk, kind of sub!dunk, service top!dunk
wc: 1.5k
A/N: baby's first Dunk fic!!!! everybody say good job jj 😝 lowkey i'm slowly but surely fucking up my wrist bc i also work the fuck out of it at my job so, if im a little slower than usual that'll be why sorry beloveds 🙏. anyway i love my big dumb boyfriend and u WILL be seeing more of him thank u and goodnight.
p.s. if u r following me for the pitt dw i'm not abandoning her!!! we're just taking a little hyperfixation detour...i have a big heart and very flexible legs, there's room for everybody in here
Maybe he’s been less impressive in a tourney than he would’ve hoped, maybe he let himself get roped into a party, only to spot wealthy lords flirting with you across the room while he was fetching drinks. Knowing Dunk, it’s possible he’s just a little hungry.
Either way, your poor knight is in a pissy mood. Arms folded over his chest, lip jutted out in the cutest little pout. Slouching in your tent, he watches you get comfortable, striding back and forth with the ribbons on your bustier undone.
“By the Seven, it’s warm,” you keep complaining, fanning a hand by your face and pointedly glancing in his direction. As the sun sets, you can’t have long before Egg returns; courtesy of Dunk’s only tentatively maintained curfew. The knight in question is huffing through sweat-shiny, reddened cheeks himself, yet still refuses you even a taste of the attention you’re after. You’ve been at it so long, you’re almost certainly hotter now than you would be if you could just sit still for five minutes. Unfortunately for Dunk, you’re as stubborn as you are pretty.
“Are you honestly just going to sit there and sulk?” you demand, finally stomping to a stop right in front of him. It does Dunk absolutely no good to have such a sight before him: your hands on your hips, glowering down at him and periodically blotting away sweat with your skirt. The long flashes of your legs nearly break him, but he won’t. He can’t.
“Beg pardon, m’lady. But you should leave me be.”
“And why’s that?” Another wipe of your forehead, skirt hiked up high enough to see the weathered top of your stockings. Dunk pushes himself as far back into his seat as he can get. You give him absolutely no respite, taking a slight step forward that puts your unbound chest right in his face. He swallows, hard.
“M’lady…”
“Suddenly, you seem in much higher spirits, Ser.” You lower yourself into his lap, rubbing your hand languidly over his crotch as he twitches into what just might be the most raging boner he’s ever had in his life.
He takes a stuttering, deep breath and circles his hand around your wrist. Whether he means to push you away, hold you still, or shove your hand into his breeches, even he has no idea. “Please, my love. Don’t.”
“But why?” Your strength should be no match for his, but when your hands finally do reach for the tie on his breeches, Dunk simply cannot fight it. Jaw ajar in a silent moan and eyebrows downturned, he continues holding onto your wrist. You stroke him at a torturously slow pace, fixing him with a stern glare. “Duncan.”
His grip tightens and his mouth shuts. In fact, so do his eyes. Even a glance might undo him, may certainly snap the dangerously taut bounds around his desire. Because of course, of course he wants you. He always wants you.
“I’m not…” His thumb strokes your wrist and he reluctantly pulls it away, to give it a sloppy kiss, still with his eyes shut. “Today hasn’t been my day, my lady.”
“Then let me help,” you urge, shuffling impossibly closer and nodding downwards. “Did it not feel good?”
“No, it–it always feels good. You’re always–I love you so much. All of you, everything you have to give me. It’s just…I can’t.”
Your body doesn’t move an inch, but your head tilts ever so slightly.
“If I…If we…” He sighs. “I don’t mean to be untoward.”
“Do it, I dare you.”
He chuckles and brings your foreheads together, thumb brushing against your cheek. “This is how I like to treat you. How I should treat you.”
You pout. “I am not a china doll, Dunk.”
“Of course, but–” He cuts himself off with a rasping groan. His hips hitch upwards and his grip on your waist tightens and for a fraction of a second, he allows himself to think of it. Grabbing you, manhandling you, making good on his title of husband and fucking you senseless. To feel his blood pumping for something more meaningful than honour, to make him good for something that matters, that isn’t jousting or royals or riches. To use this brutish, hulking body for love. For you.
“Please, my lord. You’re upset. Let me make it better.”
Again, he bites his lip through another groan. He shakes his head and tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere for him to go. You know what it does to him, to give him titles he doesn’t deserve. Titles that sound weighty and legitimate coming from your mouth, a blasphemy that has him imagining himself as a king.
Slow and teasing, your hand is back in his breeches, his hips raising to meet your touch without a second thought. By the time you’re grinding on his thigh and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Dunk’s bad mood is nearly forgotten and all that tension is concentrated into one thought: serving you.
He lifts you both off the chair to pull down his breeches and wastes no time pulling you ever closer. “So wet,” he whispers into your open mouth.
Your arms wrap around his neck as he buries himself inside you, your mouth pressing wet, hot kisses over every spot of his face you can reach. “Show me.”
“Hm?” Dunk can’t seem to stop groaning, half-certain he’s close already. It’s pathetic; he’s barely moved at all and your clothes are still on.
“How you were afraid you might treat me. Show me what these big, strong hands are capable of. I want to see–Mm” Throwing your head back, you bite your lip and grip his hair with a fierceness Dunk has never felt from you before. “Show me the knight I have in my charge, hm? The man entrusted with my love, my pleasure. My life.”
This undoes him entirely. He’s been breathing through brewing moans, whining into your neck, tensing his thighs to keep himself still. You’re a good woman, a kind woman, a person who has shown him some of the only tenderness he’s ever known. He shouldn’t, he keeps thinking. He shouldn’t. But you–you wretch–know exactly how to work him, play him like a fiddle. You pull down the top of your blouse so that your chest spills out. Soft, pliant flesh, right there for the taking. Grabbing, sucking, kissing. As you wrap your arms closer around him, you coil strands of his hair around your fingers and give him one long, slow grind of your hips.
“Show me, Dunk.”
And who is he–this mere hedge knight–to deny you?
“Gods, m’lady.” His hands clench around your waist. His heels dig into the ground. Before, he was letting you set the pace and simply holding you through it. Your grip in his hair tightens even further as he slams you, over and over, onto his lap. For a moment, his eyes slide shut. Though he struggles, he insists on keeping them open, keeping his half-lidded gaze trained on you. “M’sorry–Gods–Feels so good. Tell me if it hurts.”
You can’t even respond, lip bitten and a droning whine escaping your throat as he at once pulls you onto his dick and thrusts into you at an unforgiving pace.
“Tell me,” he grunts. His hands go from your hips to your chest. He squeezes, then ducks his head down to suck and nip at the skin around your nipple, while his thumb works on the other. He rubs relentless circles and groans, his free arm holding you tight against his body. “Will you–ah, my love, so fucking good.”
He can’t stop asking and apologising, begging as overwhelmed tears spring into his eyes.
“Does it feel good, m’lady? Am I–” Yet another pained groan.
“You are, Ser.” You moan into his neck. “You’re so good to me. So good, Dunk.”
The pace only gets more aggressive. Dunk’s moans flow freely and loudly, deep from the centre of his chest, his palm pressed flat against your back, practically pushing your hearts together. Your thighs slap as he snaps up into you, his voice fills your ear and now he’s gripping your biceps, pulling you downwards and filling you without giving you a second to breathe. You squeeze around him and he’s so close, all he needs is to hear it one more time. Of course, you know this.
“So, so good, Ser.” You’re soaking wet and clenching around him, showering him with breathless praise as your orgasm ricochets through just about every cell of your body. “Such a good boy. My big, strong knight.”
When he cums, he tries kissing you. Even as you lean down to help him, all he can manage his licking into your mouth as wild, keening moans leave him. His hips keep stuttering and he leaks out of you, back down himself as gradually smaller spurts of warmth fill you up. Tears roll down his cheeks and his chest heaves with breaths. It’s all he can do to stay conscious when you lean in to lick a stripe up his face and press a tender kiss right where his tears just were.
“M’lady, I–” He twitches inside you. “We don’t have time to go again.”
But he swears that the second you do, he won’t do anything stupid again like wasting that time sulking.
✦ On Your Knees ✦ smut
✦ Before It Gets Too Warm
✦ The Summers He Fell In Love With You
✦ First Light ✦ smut
↳ coming soon — part 2 ✦ smut
↳ coming soon — part 3 ✦ smut
✦ The Favourite Child
✦ Every Promise ✦ smut
✦ A Fair Husband ✦ implied smut
↳ Keep You Close — part 2 ✦ smut
✦ Just For Tonight ✦ smut
✦ Welcome Home ✦ smut
✦ The Talk of the Keep ✦ smut
✦ His Father's Son
✦ Ruin Me ✦ smut
✦ The Baby Project ✦ smut
↳ Allow Me to Assist — part 1.5
↳ Just For Tonight — part 2 ✦ smut
↳ A Moment Away — part 3
↳ Final Straw — part 4
↳ More Than Enough — part 5
✦ Greatest Offender
✦ Wedding Day
─ summary: Baelor watches you become Valarr's wife and learns to love you from afar. Valarr spends every day fearing you will return to his father.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader
─ word count: 10k (this is why I split part 3 into parts 3 and 4, it would have been 25k words)
─ content: 18+ MDNI | past infidelity | canonical character death | pregnancy | angst | smut | insecurity | jealousy | grief | fluff | children | canon divergent
─ a/n: The long, long, long-awaited part three to A Fair Husband and Keep You Close. I don't say this like ever, but you actually do need to read part two to know what is happening here in part three. Thank you so much for your patience. Writing this kinda beat me up a little, but it is done, yay!! Low key, I was kinda emotional writing this, everyone is a bit sad. Hope you enjoy. I will post part four tomorrow. Comment below if you would like to be tagged in that. Thank you as always for likes, comments, reblogs, and everything. I appreciate you. 🖤 Masterlist here.
The Small Council chamber was empty now, Valarr long gone, the candles guttering in their sconces. Baelor remained where he was, slumped in the chair at the head of the table. He had agreed, surrendering the only woman he had ever truly loved to his own son.
The next morning arrived with a cruelty that only the gods could devise. The sky above King's Landing was a bruised, overcast grey, weeping a cold, persistent rain that drummed against the slate roofs of the Red Keep. Inside the Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and heavy incense, trying valiantly to mask the smell of wet wool and damp stone. The seven-sided crystal fractured the meagre light into weak, intermittent rainbows that danced across the stone floor, but there was no warmth in them.
Baelor stood at the front, shrouded in the shadows. From his vantage point he could see everything, yet he felt entirely removed from it, as if he were watching a play performed on a distant stage.
You stood before the altar looking like a vision woven from starlight and silk. Your gown was crimson, heavy with intricate embroidery that glittered subtly with every breath you took. Valarr stood beside you, resplendent in black and crimson, the silver streak in his hair catching the candlelight. He looked at you with open, adoring intensity that made Baelor's stomach turn.
"I am yours," Valarr said, his voice ringing out clear and strong, trembling only slightly with the sheer force of his emotion. "And you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days. I promise to shield you from harm, to cherish you, and to love you with all that I am."
Baelor watched Valarr's face. There was no hesitation there, just the pure, unadulterated love of a boy who believed he had won the greatest prize in the world. It shattered something inside Baelor to watch it.
You turned to face the septon. You were smiling, but Baelor saw the tension in your shoulders, the slight nervous flutter of your hands at your sides. You repeated the vows, your voice softer, melodic. You meant it, in your way. You were committing to this life, to this man, to the duty Baelor had forced upon you.
When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Valarr did not wait. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands gently, and kissed you; a deep, passionate claim of your mouth, right there in front of the High Septon, the court, and the gods.
It felt like hell to Baelor. He turned away before the kiss broke, unable to stomach the sight of you belonging to another, unable to watch the life he should have had unfold before his eyes like a nightmare he could not wake from.
The festivities in the Great Hall were an overwhelming mix of noise and colour that neither of you truly wanted. Forgoing the bedding ceremony had been an easy decision; neither Valarr nor you had any desire to turn your intimacy into a drunken spectacle. You retired to your chambers early, the heavy door closing out the rest of the world.
The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and a dozen candles scattered across the tables. A vast bed draped in heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the linens crisp and white at the centre. Valarr stood by the fire looking at you with a mix of adoration and nervousness.
"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," Valarr whispered, crossing the room to you. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I want to make you happy."
You looked at him, seeing the man who was now your husband. "I know you will, Valarr," you said softly, covering his hand with yours.
He undressed you with agonising slowness, treating every layer of silk and lace like sacred wrapping paper. When you stood before him in nothing but your shift, he did not rush. Instead he led you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were made of porcelain.
Valarr was a fast learner, his enthusiasm tempered by a desperate need to please. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, listening to the sharp intakes of your breath and guiding his movements by your soft gasps. When he settled between your thighs he looked up at you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.
"Tell me," he urged, his voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
He pushed inside, groaning against your lips. It was pleasant, warm and vigorous and full of a youthful stamina that lasted longer than you expected. You met his thrusts, your body responding to the friction and the heat, finding a release that left you panting and trembling beneath him.
Valarr followed shortly after, spending inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, holding you tightly as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.
He murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. "My wife."
Within minutes his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his leg tangled possessively between yours. He was out, exhausted by the emotional and physical exertion of the day.
You lay in the dark, staring up at the velvet canopy above. A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, sliding hot and wet down your temple and into your hair. Then another. You did not make a sound, just let them fall, tracking silently through the dampness on your face.
As you lay there in the circle of Valarr's arms, the reality of it settled over you all at once. Baelor would never hold you like this again.
You thought about the secret passages, the stolen moments, and the way Baelor's hands felt on your skin. You thought about what it would have meant to simply leave, to refuse the marriage, to take your son and go somewhere no one knew your name. You imagined a life where you chose yourself, where you chose love over duty. You cried because you hated this life, because you had done everything right and still felt as though you were dying inside.
On the other side of the Red Keep, in a chamber that felt too large and too quiet, Baelor knelt on the cold stone floor. He was still wearing his doublet, the fabric chafing against his throat, but he could not move to take it off. He felt paralysed, trapped in a moment of grief so profound it threatened to tear him apart.
The thought of you in Valarr's bed, Valarr's hands on your skin, Valarr's lips on your mouth, it was all too much. For the first time in his adult life, Baelor Targaryen wept. He wept for the woman he loved, for the son he had lost to his own selfishness, and for the crushing, unbearable reality in which he existed in a world where you were not his.
The weeks that followed were a slow, agonising march through grey. Baelor kept his word. He did not speak to you or seek you out, effectively erasing himself from your life with the same discipline he applied to his governance, but it cost him dearly.
He saw you, of course. One afternoon, as he exited the Small Council chamber, there you were standing in the corridor ahead, waiting for your father or perhaps for Valarr. You were dressed in deep red velvet, the colour bringing out the brightness of your eyes, which softened at the sight of him.
"Baelor."
He opened his mouth and took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself.
"Father?"
The voice was sharp, clipped from behind him. Valarr strode past, moving with a purposeful aggression that made the air around them vibrate. He did not look at Baelor as he walked to you.
"How fortunate am I," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "to have such a beautiful wife who comes to visit me!"
He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed your cheek, a lingering press of lips that was as much a performance for Baelor as it was an affection for you. "Come, my love. I have something to show you."
You allowed yourself to be led, but you turned your head back over your shoulder, eyes locking onto Baelor's in a silent communication; a mixture of regret, longing, and sadness.
Valarr noticed the look. He said nothing, only tightening his arm around you and steering you away as he glared at his father.
Baelor stood alone in the corridor. He could not remember what he had been doing, where he had been headed. He retreated to the solace of his solar, where he spent the rest of the day replaying that moment in the hall, replaying the argument with Valarr. I should have fought harder, he thought, the mantra looping in his mind until his head throbbed. I should have fought for her.
Not that his agreement with Valarr's terms helped bridge the chasm between them. Valarr hated him. The betrayal was still fresh, a festering wound in Valarr's mind. He did not know if he would ever forgive his father, and he made no effort to hide it. But being near you, loving you, and being loved by you in return made the burden easier to carry. You were his balm, his reward.
Yet the insecurity gnawed at him, a rat in the walls of his happiness. He tried to suppress it, tried to accept that you were with him, but he could not shake the feeling. Every time he looked at you he wondered if you were comparing him. When he touched you he wondered if his hands felt as skilled as his father's. When he lay with you, driving into your body with desperate intensity, he wondered if you were closing your eyes and imagining Baelor.
His single-minded focus became the one thing he could give you that his father never could: a child. He wanted to see your belly swell with his seed, to create a life that was undeniably yours together. It would be the only part of you that was just for him, a legacy untainted by the memories of his father's touch.
He came to you every night, sometimes twice, worshipping your body, trying to erase every trace of the past with his own passion. "Let me give you a child," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with need. "Let me give you a son."
You, for your part, were an eager and willing participant. You wanted the family, the stability, the distraction. You wanted to give Valarr what he needed so he would stop looking at you like you might disappear at any moment.
Baelor, meanwhile, was desperate for some semblance of peace in his home. He was in pain, a constant, dull ache that radiated from his chest. His heart was broken, his mind a mess of regret and what-ifs.
He finally did the one thing he had avoided for weeks. He sent a request to Jena's chambers.
She arrived, her posture stiff, her eyes guarded. She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him not with anger but with a cool, detached curiosity. It was worse than her rage.
"I was wrong," Baelor said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He did not know where to start, so he started with the truth. "I was a fool. I was arrogant and cruel, and I used you. I used our son as a pawn in my own selfish game."
He looked down at his hands. "I am sorry, Jena. For the affair. For the callousness. For making you feel less than you are. You were right about everything." He broke down, his composure cracking as he sat there, stripped of his pride, waiting for her judgment.
Jena watched him. She saw the genuine remorse in the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked. She knew he was saying this because he was lonely, because you were gone, because he had lost his son. But it did not change the fact that she still had love for him, buried beneath layers of resentment. She sighed, a long, weary sound.
"Forgiveness will take time, Baelor. But I am willing to try."
It was not a triumph, but it was a start.
A month later, the family gathered for a small, private dinner in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was cautiously civil. Jena sat at Baelor's side, close enough that their elbows brushed on the table. Valarr sat at the foot with you beside him.
Valarr stood, looking full of pride and happiness, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.
"We have news," Valarr announced, his voice trembling with excitement. "My spectacular wife is with child."
A gasp went around the table. Baelor felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at you; glowing, your hand resting gently on your stomach, a soft, serene smile on your lips. You looked completely, utterly happy, as though you had everything you had ever wanted.
"Congratulations," your father boomed, beaming. "That is wonderful news."
He looked down at your son, Theo, a boy of two years, running around the table with a toy dragon in his hand, oblivious to the commotion. "And you, young man! Are you excited to be a brother?"
Theo did not even pause. He lifted the toy high in the air, roaring at the top of his lungs, completely ignoring the question. He continued running until Valarr caught him, lifting him and placing a kiss on top of his head.
Baelor sat frozen, the excitement of the room fading into the background. Under the table, hidden by the linen cloth, Jena's warm, soft hand covered his. She squeezed his fingers tight, offering him silent comfort in the midst of his torment. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the life drain out of him, listening to the sound of his son's happiness and knowing it was built on the ruins of his own.
The seasons turned within the Red Keep, the stone walls absorbing the shifting temperatures and the relentless passage of time. The initial, brittle peace that had settled over the royal apartments after your pregnancy announcement began to wear thin, not through any great catastrophe, but through the friction of daily existence. Marriage, you discovered, was not merely the grand gestures witnessed in the sept or the desperate passions of the wedding night; it was the mundane, grating reality of shared space.
You and Valarr argued, no different from any other newly married couple learning the painful geometry of two lives intersecting, yet the air between you always seemed to hold a charge, a lingering voltage from the secrets you kept. One afternoon a disagreement regarding the education of your son escalated into a shouting match that left the nursemaid hovering nervously in the corridor. Valarr's voice, usually so measured in public, cracked with frustration as he paced the rug, his hands gesturing sharply. You stood your ground by the hearth, your chin lifted, eyes flashing.
But when the shouting faded, there was always the aftermath. Valarr would inevitably cross the room to you, his anger draining away to leave him looking boyish and apologetic. He would pull you into an embrace, burying his face in your neck, and you would soften, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You loved each other. It was a complicated, knotted love, tangled with duty and jealousy, but it was real.
As the new year bloomed, the atmosphere in the castle shifted from domestic friction to a heavy dread. Jena fell ill. It began simply enough; a persistent cough that rattled in her chest and a fatigue that kept her abed longer than usual. But the weeks wore on, and her strength did not return.
Baelor became a fixture at her bedside. He sat for hours, reading to her in a low, steady voice or simply providing her company. In those long, quiet weeks, the distance that had yawned between them for years seemed to close. They spoke of things long buried; memories of their children when they were small, the scandals of courts past, the simple, mundane absurdities of royal life. It was not the passionate love of ballads, nor was it the all-consuming fire he felt for you, but it was warm, steady, and comfortable. He found that he liked her, this woman who had borne his children and endured his silences. She was funny, in a dry, sardonic way he had never noticed before, and she was kind, more so than he deserved.
One evening, as the light outside the window bled into a bruised purple, Jena woke from a restless sleep, her breathing a raspy, whistling sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room. Baelor leaned forward, taking her frail hand in his.
"Valarr," she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.
"He is outside," Baelor said softly. "He will not enter while I am here."
She closed her eyes, a faint, tired frown touching her lips. "He is so much like you. So proud. He holds his anger like a shield."
Baelor squeezed her fingers. "He has reason."
Her eyes opened again, fixing him with a look that cut through his defences. "You hold onto your guilt. It is drowning you, Baelor."
He looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. "I have made unforgivable mistakes."
"What is done is done. You must forgive him, and you must forgive yourself."
Baelor looked back at her and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
She squeezed his hand weakly. "Good. Now, help me sit up. Then call the boys inside."
Jena died the next morning.
Baelor had not known there was more room for sadness, but his heart expanded to accommodate it. The realisation of what he had lost in the quiet moments of reconciliation came too late.
The funeral was a blur of condolences, black, and smoke. Baelor stood at the front, Valarr and Matarys on either side of him. Valarr was pale and stony as he stared straight ahead, fixed on the pyre, as if willing the world to stop turning.
He remembered his final conversation with Jena. She was beautiful, bright, and entirely focused on his comfort and wellbeing even at the end. He had always assumed his mother would always be there, perhaps taken her presence for granted; now there was only silence. Valarr felt your hand slip into his and squeezed hard. He needed your strength.
Inside your chambers afterwards, the silence was absolute. Valarr stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his back rigid. You watched him for a moment, seeing the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and walked over to him slowly, not touching him yet, just standing close enough that he would know you were there.
"She is gone," Valarr said, his voice cracking on the words. He did not turn around. "She is really gone."
"I know."
It was as if those two words broke the dam. Valarr turned, and the mask shattered. He reached for you with a clumsy movement and collapsed in your arms. You caught him, wrapping your arms around him as his knees gave way, sinking with him to the floor.
He sobbed into your shoulder, a sound deep and wrenching that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones; weeping for the mother who had smoothed his hair and bandaged his knees, for the voice that had soothed his nightmares and sung him lullabies, for the unconditional love that had now passed. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, letting him pour his sorrow out into the fabric of your gown. There were no words for this. You just anchored him, your presence a steady, silent promise that you would not let him drift away.
After a long time the sobbing slowed, turning into ragged, uneven breaths. Valarr pulled back slightly, his face puffy and red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
"You are all I have."
You reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You have your father," you said gently. "He grieves with you."
Valarr looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and nodded. "I know." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, drawing strength from your breath against his skin. Then he stood, pulling you up with him. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, grateful press of lips, before straightening his tunic and squaring his shoulders. He looked like a prince again, albeit a battered one.
He found Baelor in the solar the next evening, sitting behind the massive desk that seemed too large for one man. The room was dark, lit only by a few tapers and the dying embers in the grate. Baelor was staring at a book but he was not reading it. He looked up when Valarr entered, his eyes guarded and weary.
"Father." The word was awkward and heavy.
Baelor stood slowly. "Valarr."
Valarr took a deep breath. "I do not wish to be at war with you. It is too much, and, mother hated it." He paused. "I shall not apologise for what I said to you. I was right."
Baelor closed his eyes. "I know."
"But," Valarr continued, his voice softening slightly, "I wish to move forward."
When Baelor opened his eyes, the gratitude in them was clear. It stripped away the years, the titles, the grievances, leaving only a father looking at his son. "I would like that," Baelor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would like that very much."
The scars from the past remained, but this was a beginning. They spoke then, haltingly at first, then with more ease.
Weeks melted into months, and the heavy cloak of mourning began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of new life as your time drew near. The labour was long and arduous, a test of endurance that lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning. You gritted your teeth, sweat beading on your forehead, hands crushing the linens. Valarr paced outside the room like a caged beast, his face a mask of terrified helplessness.
Baelor arrived with Matarys shortly after. He saw his son, wild-eyed and frantic.
"The birth can take hours," Baelor said. "You must prepare yourself for the wait."
The hours dragged on, marked only by the shifting of the guard and the occasional muffled cry from within the room. Baelor watched Valarr, seeing the terror in his posture, and remembered his own fears when Valarr and Matarys were born.
When the child finally came, he let out a squall that shook the rafters; a strong, healthy sound.
The door opened and a midwife stepped out, her apron stained but her face beaming. She curtsied low. "My princes! You have a son!"
Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. He did not wait for an invitation; he pushed past the midwife and into the room.
You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but your eyes were fixed on the bundle being placed in your arms. He was perfect, small, squinting against the light, but as he settled, the features became clear.
A tuft of stark white hair crowned his head. He opened his eyes, and you drew in a breath. One eye was a deep, shining lilac, the other a clear, bright blue. He was all Valarr, and yet entirely his own person.
Valarr approached the bed with hesitant steps, his eyes wide. When you gently transferred the bundle into his arms, the transformation in him was instantaneous. He looked down at the child with complete awe.
"Hello," he whispered, his voice trembling. He touched the infant's cheek with a single finger, like the boy might break. The baby shifted, yawning, and Valarr let out a choked laugh. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his face unchecked. "Welcome to the world, Jenaerys."
You smiled, brushing the white hair back from the baby's forehead.
Baelor stood in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on this moment of triumph for his son. But Valarr looked up and saw him, nodded, stepping aside slightly; an invitation.
Valarr gently passed the infant to his grandfather. Baelor took the child, supporting the tiny head with his large hand. He looked down at the newborn, and all he saw was you.
The delicate curve of your nose, the shape of the mouth, the sweet bow of the lips that were yours. It was as if you had taken your own features and breathed life into them, gifting them to this child.
This was the son he would never have with you.
Baelor lifted his head, his gaze moving from the baby to you. You lay against the pillows, smiling at him. It was a soft, knowing smile, full of understanding and shared sadness.
He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down his throat. He looked back at the baby, then at you again.
"You did well," Baelor said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of everything he could not say.
The year that followed the birth of the new prince settled into a rhythm that felt almost like forgiveness.
Valarr moved through the halls with a new centre of gravity. The sharp, frantic edge that had defined him, the desperate need to prove, to possess, to secure, had dulled into a steady, quiet confidence. He spent his available hours in the nursery, looking down at the boy with a look of utter disbelief, as if the child were a miracle he had conjured from the air itself. He leaned down to nuzzle the baby's stomach, eliciting a squeal of delight.
From his spot by the window, Theo watched the interaction. He crossed his small arms, huffing. "He just sleeps," the boy complained, his voice high and petulant. "He does not play anything."
Valarr chuckled, a low, warm sound. He reached out a hand, beckoning him closer. "Give him time, little lord. Soon he will be chasing you, stealing your toys, and generally making a nuisance of himself. You shall miss the quiet."
Your son approached reluctantly, but when Valarr ruffled his hair, he leaned into the touch. Valarr's affection was not divided; it multiplied. He looked at the dark-haired boy with the same fierce adoration he held for the infant, bridging the gap of blood with sheer will and love.
It was harder than Baelor had anticipated to step back, to watch you build this life with his son while he remained on the periphery. But he forced the feelings down, burying them under layers of duty and familial affection. This peace was too fragile to risk. He had his sons, he had these perfect grandsons, and he had you in this new, purified light; as a daughter, a friend, a fixture of his life that he could admire from a careful distance. This, he told himself as the sun dipped below the walls of the Keep, was a good life. It was not the life he had dreamed of in the quiet hours of the night, but it was a life he could endure, and even enjoy, because you were safe within it.
The peace was shattered at Ashford.
The tournament was meant to be a display of chivalry and sport, but soon turned to malice. The Trial of Seven was a chaotic mess of steel and mud, a melee of honour that turned brutal. When the dust finally settled, the crowd's roar died in their throats.
Baelor had fallen.
He did not die, though the Seven seemed to toy with the idea. A blow from a heavy mace, wielded in the heat of the moment by his own brother Maekar, had struck him squarely. The Prince of Dragonstone lay motionless.
Three days passed agonisingly slowly. The castle of Ashford became a tomb of silence. Maekar paced the corridors, his face gaunt, his hands trembling whenever they were still. Valarr sat by the window in your shared chambers, staring out at the tourney grounds now empty of revellers. He spoke little, but the fear radiated off him like heat. He was not ready to be an orphan. The thought of facing Matarys and telling him their father was gone was unbearable.
You moved through the days like a ghost, your body present but your mind trapped in the sickroom, imagining the worst.
On the third night, the castle slept. The torches in the hallways burned low, and you lay in bed beside Valarr, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but sleep continued to evade you. You did not care about propriety or if a guard saw you or what the court would whisper. You just needed to see him.
Baelor's sickroom was guarded by a single drowsy sentry, who stepped aside at the sight of your determined face. Inside, the air smelled of valerian root, feverfew, and the copper tang of dried blood.
Baelor lay in the centre of the large bed, looking smaller than he had any right to. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his tanned skin. His breathing was shallow, a faint rise and fall of his chest that seemed to require all his strength.
You moved to the chair beside the bed and sank into it. The sight of him, a man usually so vibrant and strong, reduced to this, broke something loose inside you. A sob tore from your throat as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound, but tears spilled over uncontrollably.
You remembered the way he looked at you in the Kingswood, the way he held your son, the sound of his voice saying your name like a prayer. You remembered the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, the safety you had felt in his arms. It was clear in that moment that you loved him still.
"Please," you whispered, leaning over him, your tears dripping onto his tunic. "Baelor, do not leave me."
You pressed your lips to his cheek. It was dry and cold, the stubble rough against your soft skin. "I love you." You kissed him again; a firm, lingering press on his lips, pouring every ounce of your love and your regret into that contact. You did not want to be a princess or a wife. You just wanted him to be alive.
Exhaustion eventually claimed you. You leaned forward, resting your head on the edge of the mattress, right beside his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him as you fell asleep.
The first thing Baelor truly saw when he opened his eyes was long hair and soft skin.
The pain in his head was a blinding, splitting agony, a white-hot spike driven through his temple. He groaned, trying to move, but his body felt heavy, disconnected.
He turned his head slightly, and his breath caught.
You were asleep, your head resting on his chest. For a moment, Baelor was certain he had died. This surely was the Stranger's final mercy, a vision of heaven's most beautiful angel keeping vigil beside him before the end.
He stared at you, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering in sleep and the soft parting of your lips. He missed all of this; the warmth of you near him, the smell of your hair, the quiet intimacy of just breathing the same air as you.
You stirred, your eyes heavy with sleep fluttering open and focusing on him. For a heartbeat, the world held only the two of you. A slow, tired smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.
"My heart," he breathed, his voice a dry rasp.
The sound of his voice shattered the spell. You scrambled backward, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. You felt as if you could not breathe. The intimacy of the moment, the love you saw in his eyes, it was too much.
"I must fetch the maesters."
You turned and fled the room, rushing into the corridor. "Maester! Help! The prince is awake!"
"Wait," Baelor tried to say, reaching for you, but his strength failed him. He watched the empty doorway where you had stood, the warmth of your presence already fading into the cold morning air. He closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of heaven snatched away, leaving him with only the pain in his skull and the hollow ache in his chest.
You returned to your own chambers, drained and hollowed out by the night's vigil and the emotional whiplash of seeing him awake. Valarr was waiting, fully dressed, though the sun had barely risen. He turned as you entered, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks.
He looked devastated.
"I woke to find you absent from our bed," he said. "I went to check on my father, and found you there." He took a step closer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I give you, you continue to carry a torch for him."
"Valarr."
"Do you wish you were his wife instead of mine?"
Something inside you snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the years of walking on eggshells; it all rose up. "I am sick of this, Valarr. Why must I continuously prove myself to you?"
He began to speak, but you cut him off, raising a hand. "I am married to you, and I am happy. I carried your child. Let this go." You took a breath, your gaze steady on his. "You have already lost your mother. Do you truly wish to spend your life hating your father and looking for betrayal where there is none? You must forgive him, truly, because you are poisoning our marriage by carrying this resentment."
His composure crumbled. His hands began to shake as he closed the distance between you, taking your hands in his. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I did not mean it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to him."
You squeezed his hands, your own anger softening. "You will never lose me, Valarr." You leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I love you."
That was the truth. You loved the man he was, the father he was to your children. But in the quiet, secret chambers of your heart, you knew there was more. His close brush with death had shown you that you were far from over Baelor. You would always, always love him. But you had made your choice, and that choice was Valarr.
Weeks later, the family returned to King's Landing, but the respite was short-lived. King Daeron II passed away peacefully in his sleep, and the weight of the crown descended upon Baelor's head. He moved through the ceremonies with grace, but inside he felt entirely unready. He had not been able to speak a private word with you since the tournament, since the morning he had woken to find you and then lost you to the chaos. For three years, Baelor tried to forget you, to smother the fire of his feelings. He failed. The familial peace he had forced himself to accept felt like a prison now. He wanted to tell you he loved you still, to apologise for what he had done, to apologise for not marrying you himself.
His opportunity came on a warm afternoon, several days after his coronation. Baelor saw you slip out of the main hall, moving toward the gardens. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs, and followed, keeping his distance as he rehearsed his words in his head. You moved quickly, with purpose, disappearing around a turn. He turned a corner, the anticipation rising in his throat, and stopped dead. You were there, but you were not alone.
Baelor could only watch as you stepped into Valarr's arms, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He watched as Valarr tilted your chin up and kissed you; a kiss full of a tender, possessive love that Baelor had never been able to claim publicly. He saw the way Valarr held you, as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. This was a tableau of love, of a bond that was living and breathing, while his own love was a ghost that haunted the halls. Seeing you like that, a perfect, united whole, made him feel utterly foolish, pining for a woman who was clearly, irrevocably happy in the arms of another.
His heart broke again. He shook his head slowly, the bitterness of regret rising in his throat as he turned around and walked away.
Baelor, hurt and quietly jealous, could not protest later that week when Valarr announced that he would be taking you and the children to Dragonstone, putting an entire sea between you and Baelor.
"Of course," Baelor said, his voice betraying none of the storm within him. "If you think it best."
The year on Dragonstone had worn the sharp edges from your life, smoothing it into contentment. In the nursery, the air was warm and close. Valarr sat on the floor, his long legs folded beneath him, a position he endured without complaint for the sake of his audience.
"And so the brave knight defeated the evil wizard and saved his kingdom."
Theo, at five years old, sat cross-legged directly before his father, his chin resting on his fists. His dark eyes were wide with concentration. "I want to be a knight, Papa!"
Valarr smiled. "You will be a great one."
Jenaerys was not so captivated by the story. He toddled to the heavy wooden chest in the corner, his small hands patting against the iron hinges. "Open," he demanded, his brow furrowed with effort.
"No more toys; it is time for sleeping," you said from the rocking chair near the fire. You shifted your weight, the familiar ache of your back a gentle reminder of the new life growing within you. In your arms, your newest babe, Baelon stirred. He was just learning to sit up on his own, a wobbly, determined effort, but the cadence of his father's voice was lulling him into sleep. His head lolled against your chest, his breaths coming in soft, even puffs against your skin.
You watched Valarr, your heart swelling. He was a patient storyteller and a better father, weaving tales of conquest and dragons, teaching his sons where they came from in the very heart of their ancestral home. He met your gaze over Theo's head, and the look you shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was your life, your fortress, built not of stone but of shared moments and the small, perfect bodies of your children.
Jenaerys, having given up on the chest, ambled back over and plopped down onto Valarr's outstretched leg, babbling a string of tired words that he clearly believed were a vital contribution to the narrative. Valarr did not miss a beat, simply resting a hand on his son's back and continuing the story.
You looked down at Baelon, fast asleep, and ran a thumb over his soft cheek, then let your hand drift down to rest on your own stomach. The subtle, rounded swell was still a secret shared only between you and Valarr. You had always wanted a large family, and the gods were being generous.
Back in your chambers, the fire had been built up, chasing away the evening chill. You sat on the edge of the large bed, watching as Valarr poured two cups of wine and handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours.
"Have you been feeling well?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"Quite well, you need not worry." You tilted your head back to look at him. "Although this house is becoming rather overrun with men. A mother needs an ally."
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that a hint, my lady?"
"One more son and I shall be completely overwhelmed."
Valarr's hand spread wider over your belly as he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "This one," he whispered, his voice filled with certainty, "is a daughter. I can feel it."
A thousand miles away, in the oppressive, perfumed air of the Red Keep's council chamber, Baelor sat at the head of the polished table, irritated.
"Must we discuss this once more? Valarr is my heir. The line is secure."
"A king needs a queen, Your Grace," another lord ventured, a plumper man who dabbed at his brow with a silk square. "For companionship. For counsel. You should not be so, solitary."
The word solitary struck a nerve. Solitary was his bedchamber at night, vast and empty. It was the long walk from the throne room back to his apartments, his footsteps echoing in a silence that seemed designed to mock him. He was a king surrounded by thousands, and he had never been more alone.
He thought of you; a constant, living presence in the hollow spaces of his life. The sound of your voice. The way your eyes would light up with a mischievous spark just before you said something daring. The feel of your hand in his, a perfect fit. How could he ever take another woman to his bed? The very idea was a betrayal of a truth that lived in his bones.
"I have no need for a queen."
The council, as expected, did not relent. They sent ladies to him. Each encounter left him more certain, more hollowed out as he compared them all to you, and not a single one could measure; not in grace, not in beauty, not in the fierce, loyal heart he knew so well. He gave up the charade, retreating further into the solitude of his duty.
His only solace was the raven that arrived from Dragonstone every fortnight. Valarr's letters detailed the boys' antics, your health, and matters of governance. Each letter was a taste of the life he had exiled himself from, a life that contained you. He missed your family terribly. He missed the sound of Valarr's voice, the sight of his grandsons, and you.
The city is too quiet, he wrote. Your brother and I would have it filled with your presence again. Come home.
The days in King's Landing unfolded like a dream, a brilliant, sun-drenched respite from the shadows of your past. The Red Keep, once a place of stifling formality and whispered anxieties, now echoed with the unrestrained laughter of children. Jenaerys had discovered the perfect kingdom for his games. The gardens were a sprawling wilderness of hedges and statues, the corridors a labyrinth of hiding places just his size. He took particular glee in darting away from his nursemaids, a flash of a child disappearing behind a stone gargoyle or a curtain of heavy velvet. The servants would flurry, their calls growing increasingly frantic, only for him to emerge with a triumphant grin from behind a curtain or the top of something he had no business climbing. He was a whirlwind of joyful mischief, and his energy was infectious.
Where Jenaerys was action, Theo was inquiry. He followed the maesters around like a duckling, his small finger pointing at everything. His curiosity was boundless, his wide eyes taking in every detail with a sweet, serious concentration that charmed everyone he met.
And then there was your infant son, a cooing, gurgling centre of gravity. He was passed from adoring arms to adoring arms. The septas, the couriers, the guards; all were utterly captivated. But no one was more captivated than his grandfather.
Baelor was transformed. In your time away, he had become stern, but that melted away, replaced by a man who was content to participate in all the silly antics the children required of him. Watching them, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was what you had always wanted for them; the joy of being children, knowing they were loved, living in a place filled with laughter. You allowed yourself to hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, that these days could stretch into forever.
Evenings, however, belonged to you and Valarr.
The hustle of the court faded behind the doors of your bedchamber. You brushed out your hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing after a long day of managing the children and court life. You watched Valarr in the looking glass. He had changed in the year you had been away. The bitterness that used to cling to him like a second skin had sloughed off, leaving behind a man who was confident, devoted, and utterly at peace with his world.
He turned, catching your eye in the reflection. A slow, tender smile curved his lips.
"You are staring, my lady," Valarr murmured, coming up behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.
"And if I am?" You leaned back into his touch, tilting your head to rest against his chest. "I have much to look at."
He chuckled and turned you around, lifting you easily to sit atop the vanity table.
"I missed this," Valarr whispered, his voice dropping an octave, roughening with that familiar edge of desire. "I missed the quiet. Just you and I."
"As did I," you breathed, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "The boys are happy here. It is good to see."
"It is," he agreed, though his focus was entirely on your mouth. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours; a tease, a promise. "I have been neglecting my wife."
"You have been busy being a prince," you countered, your breath hitching as his hand moved from your waist to the laces of your nightgown.
"Tonight I am just your husband."
He kissed you then. You parted your lips, welcoming the sweep of his tongue, the tang of the wine he had drunk at dinner still lingering on him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardening length of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.
Valarr groaned into your mouth, lifting you from the vanity without breaking the kiss. He carried you to the bed, laying you down against the crisp linens. He followed you down, settling his weight between your thighs, pressing you into the mattress. The heat of him was overwhelming, a furnace that chased away the chill of the night.
"I love you," he rasped, pulling back to look you in the eye. His gaze was intense. "Everything I am, everything I have; it is for you."
Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer volume of emotion swelling inside you. "I love you, Valarr. More than life."
Valarr shifted, laying you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. The nightgown was a flimsy barrier, and he made quick work of it, his hands sliding the fabric up your thighs, over your hips, until he could pull it over your head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your skin, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace. He looked at you; your heavy breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs, with a worshipful hunger that never failed to undo you.
He shed his own clothes quickly, and then he was skin against skin, all hard muscle and heat. He settled between your legs, not entering you yet, just rocking against your slick folds, teasing you both. "You feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "So perfect."
"Please, Valarr," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you."
He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours. He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and guided the head to your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, inch by agonising inch, stretching you open until he was seated to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite; you could feel him in your very core.
You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even deeper.
He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stole your sanity. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession. His hands found yours, their fingers lacing together, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. He kissed you then; a deep, filthy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. The pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of your bodies filling the room. You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, leaving red furrows in his skin. He did not flinch; he just drove into you harder, with a desperate, frantic energy.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His arms banded around you as he continued to drive into you. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach threatening to snap. He must have felt it too. He lifted his head again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. "Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Come for me."
His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and your release crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made you cry out his name. Your cunt clenched around him, rippling and spasming, and with a hoarse shout he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spent inside you, a hot, flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his heart hammering against your ribs.
You lay tangled together, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks, the firelight casting long shadows on the wall. It was a perfect night, a perfect moment of connection and love. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly complete.
The dream was not long for this world, however, ending with the arrival of the Spring Sickness.
It came on the winds from Flea Bottom, a whisper at first, then a roar. The city was awash with a cruel, efficient plague that showed no deference to rank or coin. The lowborn died in their gutters, the highborn in their silken beds. The Red Keep, an impenetrable fortress for armies, proved no defence for this invisible enemy.
The first blow landed hard. Matarys, a boy of barely seventeen with his father's kind eyes and his mother's fiery spirit, took sick. It was a swift, brutal illness. One day he was complaining of a headache; the next he was burning with a fever that no maester could break, his body wracked with chills so violent his teeth chattered constantly. He died three days later, his young body simply giving out.
Then Valarr fell ill.
It started with a weariness he could not shake. Then the fever came. He lay in the sick bed, far from the place of your perfect night, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the roaring fire. His skin was pale and waxy, pulled taut over the sharp bones of his face. He looked like a stranger, a beautiful, broken effigy of the man you loved.
You never left his side. You sponged his burning skin with cool water, forced water and broth between his cracked lips, and prayed. You prayed to the Seven, to the old gods, to any god who would listen. You bargained, you wept, you promised anything, everything, just for him to overcome this. But the gods had turned their faces away.
On the fourth day, he woke. His eyes were hazy with fever, but they found yours. "My love," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.
Your heart clenched. "I am here. I am right here."
"Bring the children to me, please."
Your first instinct was to refuse, to protect them from this, from the sight of their father so broken. But the look in his eyes was desperate. You nodded, sending a guard, and moments later a nurse led the three children into the room.
Valarr struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort, as you piled pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard. He looked terrible, but a weak smile touched his lips as his sons were lifted onto the bed.
Theo, ever the observant one, stayed at the foot of the bed, his small face etched with a confusion that was close to fear. "Papa? Are you sick?"
"I am a little tired," Valarr managed, his voice thin. He held out a trembling hand. "Come here."
Theo crept forward and took his father's hand. Jenaerys, less understanding, simply plopped down onto the mattress, patting Valarr clumsily. "Papa," he babbled, happy and entirely unaware.
Valarr's smile widened, a genuine, heartbreaking thing. He pulled the children close, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads. He looked at his beautiful boys, their bright, innocent eyes, and then his gaze shifted to you, to the gentle swell of your stomach, and the sleeping baby in your arms. He looked at his entire world, gathered in this room, and it was more than enough. It was everything.
Valarr held them for as long as he could, his strength fading fast. Then, with a sigh, he spoke. "Be good for your mother and cause no trouble, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Papa." Both boys said it together.
"Never forget, you are my sons, and I love you."
The nurse gently took the boys away, their cheerful ignorance a stark contrast to the crushing dread that filled the room. You knew this was a farewell. He placed a trembling hand on your belly, the touch so light you barely felt it.
His eyes fluttered closed, his body sinking back against the pillows. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, until the candle guttered out and the room was plunged into darkness. You must have fallen asleep, because you woke with a start, the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You reached for his hand. It was cold. You scrambled closer, your fingers fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. There was nothing. The Stranger had come in the night and stolen your husband.
Valarr's pyre was lit the next day. Baelor, his face a mask of cold, regal grief, stood and watched as the body of yet another son was committed to the flames. You stood apart, the heat of the fires blistering against your skin, but you felt only an internal, icy cold. You held the hands of your sons. They were quiet, not understanding the solemnity, only that their mother was holding their hands too tight. They did not understand that the smoke curling into the sky was all that remained of their father.
When the rites were over and the last embers had faded to ash, you fled to your chambers. You barely made it to the safety and privacy of your rooms before you began to truly weep. This was not a graceful weeping. It was an ugly, gut-wrenching storm of sobs that wracked your entire body. You collapsed to the floor, your nails scraping the stone, your cries the sound of a soul being torn apart.
The door opened, and Baelor entered. He said nothing, just crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside you. He was the only other person in the world who knew this specific flavour of hell. You did not hesitate. You crawled into his arms, burying your face in his chest, and let the grief consume you. You sobbed for the endless hours you had held yourself together, for the terrible conversations with a toddler who kept asking when his father would play with him. You sobbed for the future that had been incinerated, for the man you loved who was now just smoke and memory.
When you finally pulled back, hiccuping, your face streaked with tears, you saw that Baelor was crying too. He had lost the love of his life, his wife, his parents, and both his children. How much more could one man be asked to endure?
You decided you could not stay. King's Landing already felt like a tomb. Every stone, every corridor, every shadow held the ghost of Valarr. The sight of the pyre was burned into your mind, haunting you, tormenting you. You needed to go home to Dragonstone, where the memories were not of sickness and death but of passion and hope. You would raise your sons there, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons and the memory of their father.
Scared of the intensity of Aerion Brightflame's love, you break off your betrothal and choose his cousin, Prince Valarr instead. Aerion finds you alone in a King’s Landing alleyway to demand an answer, determined to find the truth or burn everything that comes in between.
The night air is cold enough to chill your bones.
It is pitch dark in here, so devoid of light that you fear if you could take a step, outward, out into the capacious path… you would dissolve. The darkness would swallow you like a thing. As you stare, standing here on the edge of the alleyway, willing the darkness to form shapes—a pillar there, a hedge bush, the path that leads to another tavern. The sounds from the street—laughter, quarrels, screams—are more muffled than ever. You do not know what you were hoping for when you detached yourself from your betrothed, but you know it wasn’t anything good.
The cold does not bother you now, not as it did when you first came into the Red Keep. Little by little, the foreign air has made its home inside you. Why would it not? you think. After all you are marrying into it—King’s Landing, Red Keep, the Iron Throne.
The Targaryens.
The night air swirls around you and there’s a burst of scent, sudden and strange—of roses and dandelions. The sleeves of your gown flow behind you. You are just about to walk toward the darkness of the alleyway, when a voice—rough and callous and familiar —stops you in your tracks.
“Running away, sister?”
You still—every part of you stops. Your lungs do not draw breath, your heart does not pump blood, your skin, cold and goose-fleshed, crawls at the sound. There is only one man who can elicit such cursed response. And you close your eyes before you answer to him.
“Aerion.”
You can hear him step closer, feel the sudden bent in the atmosphere. “What are you doing?”
“Exploring.” You bite your tongue. “Not that it is any of your business.”
“Anything my good-sister does is my business.” His words, heard separately, would sound sweet. Would sound kind and gentleman-like. But there is the matter of his voice—it is sharp and cutting like a silken blade.
“What are you doing here?”
“Following you,” he says, and there’s a danger in his tone. Something flickering, burning like spice. It tastes of treason.
“Did Valarr send you?” you ask, knowing very well that Aerion is the last person your betrothed would send to look for you. Yet, you wanted to say his name. You wanted the reminder—that you are bound to Valarr Targaryen. And anything that comes out of his cousin’s mouth should regard this fact very carefully.
“My cousin does not even know you are gone.”
Your heart pricks, and you feel foolish. The sentence is intended to hurt you, to disquiet you. Yet the knowledge does not make it better.
“I was… exploring,” you say slowly, still not turning, “I wanted a moment alone.”
“Alone from the good prince?” he says cruelly.
“Alone from all the noise.”
“Ah, because there is enough noise inside your head.”
You shiver. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look at me.”
The command comes sudden and stark. His cursed voice slithers inside your skin, like a bad word, a malediction. You feel your blood warm as you turn back, unable to disobey.
Aerion Brightflame stands, leaning against the other pillar of the alleyway. His head is tilted, violet eyes boring into you. And even in the dark, the silver in his head shines. The red from his chainmail shirt sends blisters of spark on his face. The moonlight always does inexplicable things to his complexion. That Valyrian paleness, the light eyes, that sharpness in his face are cut from marble—from something ancient that hasn’t been replicated in another creature quite so alluringly. When you first saw him, you thought he was the most beautiful person alive.
You tell yourself that it was because you were promised to him.
“I know what you mean. I know what you want. Because you were betrothed to me first.”
His words, accusations, burn your skin. “Aerion—”
“Before you betrayed me and went to him.”
“That’s a vile accusation.”
“Vile, is it?” He comes closer, and you still yourself, you don’t back away because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affects you still. “Am I vile? Is that why you ran away to precious, golden Valarr?”
“I went to Valarr because I love him.”
He chuckles, it is a dangerous, joyless sound. “You did not love me, then?”
“No,” you lie.
His eyes flash cold. He steps closer and closer until you feel yourself step back, just to delay the gap between you. You feel your heart skid to a stop when your back meets with the stone of the alleyway. You will yourself to stare at him with force. With some of the fire everyone keeps telling you is inside you too.
Aerion reaches his hand to smooth the rough hair fluttering over your forehead. You stay still, not even breathing as he leans down, down, down until his pale nose touches your throat.
He sniffs, predatory, insane. “You smell the same—cardamon, vanilla. Valarr likes that, does he?”
“Yes,” you hiss out, turning your face.
Aerion’s hand comes to touch your throat, his thumb brushes over your pulse point at the junction of your jaw. “But there’s something else, too. Something my good cousin cannot even fathom.”
“Aerion—let me go…” you breathe out.
“Blood,” he says, and you can feel his tongue lap out, for a fraction of a second. Tasting you. “That tangy, metallic taste of it. Something forbidden. Something rotten.”
You scoff in anger, pushing him back on instinct. “You are unbelievable.”
He leans back, undeterred, as if your hands weigh nothing. “He cannot smell that. He cannot smell you.”
You say nothing. There is nothing to say. Because whatever argument he has concocted inside his maggot-infested head is fallacy. Is nothing. You wish you never loved Aerion, never laughed at his cruel jokes, never touched his hand, never ran with him in the nooks of the Red Keep hiding from everyone else. You wish you never let him kiss you, pressed agaisnt his chest, his hands roaming everywhere in your body before settling on your face.
You still wake up in sweat at night, feeling his tongue drinking you in—claiming you, maiming you.
“You cut off the finger of Lord Redwyn,” you say, surprised to find your voice calm despite the tremor in your heart.
“He brushed his hand against your skin.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “It was a dance.”
He laughs, and the sound echoes off the stone with razor-sharp intensity. “I do not like sharing…”
“That is insanity—”
“... and they have given you to someone I cannot fight. Cannot kill.”
“This is treason.”
“All my life Valarr was the one I pitied,” he hisses, clutching your wrist so hard it sends a stab of pain through your skin. “The good one, that docile lamb, the one those boring septons praised. He never had the courage to look inside his head, never had the courage to feel the dragon in his blood—a waste of an heir. I thought.” His grip tightens. But you stay still. “Yet he got the only thing I ever wanted without even trying.”
“I am not a thing you can possess,” you bite back, tilting your head to challenge him. “I am a woman and I would not have someone who deemed me any less.”
“Oh you are not a woman,” he hisses. “You are my doom.” The violet of his iris is burning bright, burning through you. “I tried to soften myself for you. I stopped cursing for you. I turned away from brawls whenever I wanted to pick up my knife and slit someone’s throat, I let that demon Egg maim my hand and did nothing. I let those meandering maesters give me potions for sleeping when I wanted to bash their heads and burn their useless hands. I wanted to appear sane for you. And yet the one time I slipped, you left me and went to bed with my dear, green cousin. The only one who I cannot touch. You are a witch, a temptress, a vile seductress. You say I could not possess you? You possess me.”
You want to be mad at him, want to pull him apart with your bare hands. And yet, the pain in his poisonous speech touches a deep, dark part of you. The one that was betrothed to him, the one that thought you could tame him.
“You scared me,” you whisper. “I realised I couldn’t change you.”
He stares at you, his eyes turning softer. For a quirt, forgiving moment, you think you see him again, the way you saw him first time. You were fresh off your ship and your feet barely touched the squalor of King’s Landing. He was there, standing by the royal carriage, head tilted at you in palpable surprise. As if he did not expect you.
The months after, you saw him, again and again. He was willful, he was cruel. He was forever cursed with the blood of the dragon. You thought you saw inside him, that supple, rotten core of his heart. The seeds of madness swon so deep he could not extricate it without damaging himself. You thought you saw him softer, too. Yet. The lines blurred. More often than not. His softness becomes his cruely. His words become his blade. His kiss at once romantic and bruising.
“I wonder if you could… love me,” he says, there is a tender pang hanging there at the end of it. “Because you seemed the only one who could.”
The word—that cursed word—shakes you. Reverberate inside your head like a coin. Even in this momnet of damning clarity, you cannot tell him the whole truth. You did. “I wanted to love you good. I tried to.”
“And you failed,” he says, and the words are curiously flat. “And you left. Like everyone else.”
You chest pricks, it bleeds. Because that is the truth. You failed, like everyone else—everyone before you. People see him and they touch him and then they leave him in his own little prison. People see the curse and the pain and they decide that he is not worth the trouble. That his malice is both the question and the answer. And he stays there, wallowing in his own darkness, wondering what is wrong with him. Alone.
Without quite thinking what you are doing, you reach out your hand, the one he hasn’t gripped in anger, to touch his hair. It is soft, smooth, silken. It feels like a boy’s hair, it feels dangerously malleable. He feels ruinously malleable at the mouth of the darkened alley.
His breath hitches. There is an almost imperceptible shift in his expression. Almost not there. But you see it, and you feel your heart break clean in two. Because despite everything, the betrayal and the humiliation, Aerion Targaryen still loves you.
“Why are you lurking the shadows?” he asks.
“I do not know,” you reply truthfully.
“I do. It is because the darkness calls you, too. It is because you liked when you were the only one who could chain me. Because the thought of a suitable life with a doting husband scares you almost as much as the opposite scares you. You want a gentle prince? Or do you want one who burns for you?”
Your voice is lower than a whisper. “You’d burn anyway.”
“I still love you.”
And you love him, too. But not enough to spend the rest of your life trying to soften his blows, trying to save him from ruining himself and others. Valarr, when he found you crying in the royal garden, scratching your wrist where Lord Redwyn had touched—you thought it was the reason of it all, you were the reason of all the violence— knelt in front of you. He touched your hand and soothed the brun of the scratch. You decided to love him, for the moment. And then, you decided to love him forever.
The man in front of you is staring at you in utter infatuation. You look at him and realise that you have never known your heart, not fully. You do not know how much you can bear. Your hand is still in his hair, and you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. You whisper that you are sorry. That someone brave enough to tame his mind would come. That his heart will not burn. That he will find reason, just not through you.
“They’re sending me off to Lys,” he says. “That far enough for you?”
“I never asked for that.”
“Your betrothed did.”
Surprise hits you with a blunt force. Your breath hitches. When Aerion notices it, he chuckles.
“So he did not tell you.”
“I am sure he plans to.”
“When, I wonder? My ships leaves on the morrow.” He leans in again, resting his mouth on your neck. You feel your knees buckles, without a will of their own. You almost fall over before his hands bracket your waist.
“Aerion.” His name on your lips is both a plea and a warning.
“I know you love him,” his words drench your skin. “Just pretend for a minute. Pretend you are mine.”
You nod, haze covering your senses. You find your hands reaching up to catch his neck, hold him in place. He is right, you love Valarr, and this is only pretend. You have been called a mad child enough in your life to avoid all intensities. You do not want the burn of Aerion’s fire, do not want his passion, do not want to feel the graze of his teeth marking his territory on your skin. You don’t want his madness or his desires because you know he’d ruin you. So you only pretend, you allow yourself to pretend as he holds you, as you pull him close for one last time.
When his teeth close around your skin, it is surprisingly tender. You whimper as he bites you, marks you, ruins you. The night wind flutters your clothes, the smell of the dark alleway is intoxicating, ruinous. But you stay there, you stay his for this moment.
Because for one, strange and sparking moment, it feels disastrously like true love.
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aerion is my doomed noodle, my cursed bunny :)
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