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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 3 days

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 5: Truth

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You labour.

Hello, all! I've had some deadlines at work delay this one, but we have A BAAAAABY so I hope this is worth it! We're progressing through the timeline now, and we're nearly half-way through the time gap between Episodes 7 and 8. From here, it's likely time will speed through a little more, though don't take my word for that. Some plottening stuff happens in here, too, though this is mostly off-screen. Lotta dialogue as well. The chap comes with its customary long word count (approx 7000 words), so settle in. Lemme know if you enjoy!

Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for betaing this chapter for me! Thank you to @emilykaldwen for giving me some valuable tips to tidy this thang up!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, implications of forced pregnancy/marital ab*se (not main pairing), semi-graphic childbirth.

You look up from the letter, your gut sinking at the revelation therein. From your position—propped up and thoroughly barricaded in by mountainous cushions—you watch your sister pace, her hands clenched before her so tightly that her skin is white as bone.

“We knew this was bound to happen,” Daemon says from his perch at the end of the bed, near enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the covers.

Bouncing Rhaenar atop his knee, your uncle’s free arm bears the weight of Aelys, who busies herself hanging off him and stamping her feet on the ground in a facsimile of walking. He ought to appear as a nursemaid, but he carries his undertaking well, a certain automaticity about him that grants him an air of nonchalance. Perhaps he had done the very same with you once, long ago.

With no small degree of condescension, he adds, “Was this not the purpose of Alicent’s little plot? A waste if the boy were not to seed her eventually.”

Not for any lack of trying.

Disdain pulses through you at the thought of your half-brother, at the thought of what you know he had done to Helaena to get his ilk on her, what he had been doing to her before she was ready and willing to abide it. This is not something you can tarry on for long without anger.

Your eyes rove over the words on the page, seeking within them some semblance of the girl you knew. She has not written this. She would not have said this. ‘Tis too grand, too devout. No—this is the work of her mother. Your lady stepmother has made a blatant show of her daughter’s children to bolster Aegon’s cause, and the notion makes you angry. There is indication here as to Helaena’s true feelings, as to how she might have come to discard her moon tea and let her womb bear fruit.

Why did she never mention it in any of her letters? you think hopelessly. How could she not tell me she was with child? Have we truly been driven so far apart now?

Worse than this, you wonder if she had been found out. If this odd reticence is a product of some sort of imprisonment, a consequence for betraying her duty. You wonder and you hope, fervently, that she has not been forced to birth her brother’s babes—by her mother, more like, as Aegon does not seem the sort to concern himself overmuch about such things—for her sake and for the innocent lives so newly brought into the world.

Rhaenyra scoffs, recapturing your attention. “Forgive me for assuming her barren. It has been near two years since they wed, and naught to show for it.”

“And now she’s borne twins of her own. A shame.” Daemon sniffs derisively. You cannot quite see his expression as he regards his boy and girl, but you imagine it is one of smug arrogance as always. “Perhaps the Realm would give a shit if hers had come before ours.”

“It is a matter of succession, not innovation! Your children”—she gestures irascibly to Rhaenar and Aelys, both as fascinated as the other by the sight of Rhaenar’s bared toes dangling from his papa’s lap and unconcerned by the rising volume of their aunt’s voice—“are not at risk, but mine are. This will give the Greens all the more reason to accept my half-brother as the rightful heir.”

She cuts herself off, taking several deep breaths to steady her temper.

“He is already the firstborn son of the King,” she says, quieter, more measured. “And now, with a son to further his claim… what chance do I have?”

Your poor sister. She has been on edge since Laenor departed. This cannot have helped her state of mind any.

“First son, yes,” you tell her softly. “You are the firstborn. Father named you heir. He has never reneged on that, never named Aegon instead. Do not forget that.”

She sinks against the wall, anger gone as quickly as it had sparked to life. “What if he changes his mind? It would be easier. Rhaenys told me once… that men would sooner see the realm put to the torch than have a woman on the throne.”

“Why would he?” Daemon asks. “The boy is a man now, or near enough. He declared for you when you were much younger. If he were going to change his mind, he’d have done it already. And Rhaenys can be a sanctimonious cunt when she wants to be. Ignore her.”

Perhaps. But our cousin is right—for had she not been in the very same position near thirty years ago? She had the stronger claim, and yet was passed over for Father. The lords have long favoured manhood over seniority.

You keep these thoughts to yourself, though. No good can come from pointing out exactly why Rhaenyra has reason to worry.

“Hm.” She does not sound overly reassured by your husband’s words.

He continues, unconcerned. “This news is of little importance. Does the hare not multiply in abundance? Offspring it may have, but it doesn’t give them divine right any more than the same gives the Hightower spawn. Calm yourself.”

It is precisely the wrong thing to say. You stifle the urge to roll your eyes, steeling yourself for the inevitable backlash.

“Do not tell me to calm down, Daemon,” is her irritated response.

“Then do not storm in and disturb us so.”

“May I remind you that you reside here by my—”

“Perhaps you can postpone your quarrel to some other time?” you ask loudly, drowning out the end of whatever riposte Rhaenyra had concocted. “Preferably when I do not have to hear it?”

Your children turn, startled by your sudden interjection. It is as though they have just realised you are present. Rhaenar kicks his feet a little, gaze fixed on you. You can tell that he wants you, though he is far more patient than his sister. Aelys drops her hands from Daemon’s arms, using the bedframe to keep herself upright as she sidles closer to you, whining for “mama” with a steadily growing frown. You wish you could lean over and lift her, but the effort of doing so might well push this new babe clean from you.

Daemon carries on with his exchange, though his eyes do flicker to the girl watchfully. “Exactly,” he says to your sister. “Now fuck off.”

The day either of my children make use of such foul language, you decide, is the day their father will be sleeping on the floor.

Rhaenyra levels him with little more than a sardonic quirk of the brow, as though his conduct is but mildly irritating. “Give me a reason to exile you from this island, Uncle. Go on.”

It is a jest, clearly, one that tugs at the edge of your lips with the threat of amusement. Her nostrils flare with concealed victory at his dismissive grunt, the rigid lines of her figure easing into something approaching serene as she moves towards the side of the bed.

Though she readily hoists Aelys from the floor to kiss her downy-soft cheek, it is not what your daughter desires—she twists and reaches out for you, doing her best to squirm away. Daemon stands, free arm held out. Rhaenyra passes the infant to him, cooing when she inevitably begins to cry with the frustration of once again being denied her mother. While your husband murmurs platitudes to her, bouncing the twins in his hold lest the spell of despair pass from one to the other, your sister turns to you.

“Rest.” Leaning forward to press her lips to your crown, she smooths your hair back and takes the missive still clutched between your fingers into her grasp. She waves it about as she says, “I… I will send our congratulations to the capital.”

You nod. “Alright.”

Aelys is still fussing as Rhaenyra leaves, clinging to her papa’s neck and wailing directly into his ear. So illogical it is, to latch oneself onto the very person keeping them from their desire, but such is the nature of children, you have found. Rhaenar begins to bleat, stirred by his sister, and Daemon is succeeding little in quelling either protest. It is valiant of him to try and keep the twins away, beleaguered as you are by constant aches and soreness now—but the comfort they are after is not one he can provide.

You sigh, tugging the laces affixing the front panel of your shift to the sides. The fabric drops. “Give her to me.”

Obligingly, he places Aelys onto the mattress, chuckling as she inches forward, eager to get to you. You try not to wince as she elbows you in her scramble amongst the cushions to situate herself, head pillowed against the protuberance of your belly while her hands and mouth fasten to your breast.

She is old enough now that your milk is no longer strictly necessary for survival, but you cannot deny her the sweetness of nursing when it brings her such security. You hear her suckling, feel the flexing of her fists against your skin, the familiar tugging sensation as she pulls and swallows. It is more powerful than a calming tonic, a bolt of love in its rawest form spreading throughout your body.

The mattress dips beside you, and you can feel your son clambering over your legs, though your gaze upon your daughter does not break. Daemon’s calloused finger strokes along the meeting point of her lips to your nipple.

“She just about hangs off your teats, doesn’t she?” he asks, deep and warm.

You smile, running a soothing palm up and down her back. Her lids have begun to droop. “It is comforting, I think. There isn’t much there for her.”

With the new child set to arrive any day, you know you will begin to make that precious first milk for them soon, thin and yellow and essential for good health. Your twins may need to take sustenance from Freda only until your supply renews itself properly. It is worrying to think of, for you are certain neither will be very enthusiastic about the change in routine.

You let out a laugh as Rhaenar finally finds your other breast, mirroring his twin against your belly. The pressure is not quite comfortable, but it is manageable enough. Your boy is slower, gentler than Aelys, preferring to take his time feeding rather than guzzling it all down as quickly as he can. Your uncle’s hand enters your line of sight, ruffling the dusting of silver-white capping his son’s head.

“What do you think?” he asks finally, breaking the silence. The question has nothing to do with your present circumstances.

“I… I don’t know.”

You truly don’t. You do not know how to think, how to feel about little Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, or what it means that their mother had kept them concealed. You settle on the simplest conclusion you have come to thus far.

“Rhaenyra is right,” you say. “This complicates matters.”

It sounds weak even to you. Daemon pulls away, taking his warmth with him. He stares at some fixed point on the wall, the ridge of his brow casting a shadow of restrained ferocity over his face. His jaw is set. When he speaks next, it is colder than he has sounded in moons.

“Only to those who have no loyalty to the true heir. That bitch”—Alicent, your mind supplies unhelpfully, ‘that bitch’ being all he will deign to call her since he had learned of her schemes—“may have named her son for a king, but he will never be fit to sit the Iron Throne.”

“There are men aplenty named ‘king’ in past ages who have been ill-suited to it,” you remind him carefully. “It is not for love of Aegon that support is with him.”

He snorts, though there is little humour in it. “I would sooner set the Seven Kingdoms ablaze than bend the knee to the spawn of a Hightower.”

You believe him, and that may well be the worst part. Who could ever stand against the wrath of a dragon?

“Will it come to that?” you ask, clutching your babes to you. It is all you can do to prevent your voice from quivering. “Truly?”

“For the Realm’s sake, it had better not,” he says darkly.

True. It is not a future with a peaceful aftermath, that is certain. But the gleam in his eye tells you that, should such a day come, it is not only his enemies he would seek to punish, but the world itself. War calls to him as you have feared for so long, and you know not if he has the power to resist it.

The same thought plagues you again. Am I enough for him? Are we enough for him? You wonder if you will ever know the answer.

You recognise the pains for what they are this time. When you wake in the morning to a twinge at the base of your spine and radiating tightness throughout your lower body, it is as sure a sign as any that the babe intends to make their way from you in due course.

It is pointless to panic. These sensations had begun the eve before the twins’ birth, and so you know there may well be hours until anyone need be alerted. Still, it is unpleasant enough that you ask your ladies to prepare a bath, hoping that the warmth will dull the worst of it.

You find it helps. You feel less weighted down, and while the pain does not dissipate entirely, the water suspends you in a state of perpetual serenity. Periodically, the maids remove water and set it on the hearth to boil before slowly tipping it back in, allowing you to remain in your haven for as long as you wish. Steam rises in whorls, heating the chilled air and sticking to your skin.

“Princess?” Jeyne sounds anxious. You crack open your lids to find her peering at you, wide-eyed. “Should… should I fetch the healer?”

You hum through a more insistent spasm, focusing on keeping your breathing steady through it. It recedes, a wave retreating from shore but ever-present on the horizon. You know it will return, and soon.

“Mm. Yes,” you say, cupping your belly. It is almost buoyant in the water. You feel strangely calm. “This one will be born today.”

For all the flurry that quickly takes place, you find yourself unable to take much notice of it all. New voices float in and out of your periphery, rustlings and thuds and scrapes resounding as everyone else makes way for the child’s imminent arrival. You care for none of it, watching the constellation of colours across the insides of your eyelids as you breathe and breathe and breathe.

It is odd. You have spent moons worrying about this precise moment. Now that it is here, all you can think is that you have done it before, that you had had strength enough for twice the work and been given two babes for it, alive and kicking like goats. They had come easily enough—why not this one?

I am not my mother, you think. I am not Laena or Alyssa or Daella or Gael.

You vaguely register Ūlla snapping at her attendants from the other side of the room, your mouth curling up at the sound.

“Should we help her out, milady?” a midwife asks. “What if the bath is too hot?”

“She look too hot, girl? No. Leave her,” is the dismissive response. “She come out when ready.”

The well of fondness for your strange healer woman fills itself to the brim, fluttering in your heart as the babe twists about in your womb. ‘Tis unquestionable, her loyalty, her faith in you. Without saying it, she reminds you that you are the one in control here. It is your body, your babe, your battle.

You were a youth before, with the twins, unfamiliar with all that comes with childbed. Of course you had needed her hovering assistance, and of course the fact that you had needed to perform double the work necessitated so much fuss and fuddle. Now, though, it is far quieter. Fewer midwives, no maester, no fingers and instruments prodding about where they are unwanted. Just you, attuned to the rhythm within, counting the moments as they pass in irregular surges.

In. Out. In. Out. With each inhale and exhale, the pain grows and grows, unstoppable. Your insides knot together, tighter and tighter, each release feeling less and less like relief. The shakes set in, and nausea rises, though you cough up only bile over the side of the tub. You have not yet broken your fast, and you suspect you will take no food until these proceedings are at an end.

Inevitably, the tempest that is your uncle sweeps in, scattering the hush to pieces and banishing it hereforth.

“… have fucking sent for me earlier. Look at all this.” A clatter. Whether it be him discarding his blade or worse, kicking some sundry item in his foul mood, you know not. “Time to set up, but no time to fetch a page. Useless fucking—”

“Ñuhus jorrāeliarzus.” My love, you call him. It exerts you to push your voice so. With closed eyes and outstretched hand, you beckon him. “Māzīs.” Come.

He is no hound, but still, he obeys. You hear his heavy footsteps, and quick enough, your fingers are enveloped in his, the side of your head bearing the pressure of his as he crowds over you.

“Aōma iksan,” he murmurs, buzzing through your bones. I am with you.

“Rhaenar? Aelys?” You try not to whimper, but it is all you can do not to cry as it is. Even though the sight of you would surely set their tears aflow, you want them, an impulse that compels you to shore up your domain in times of vulnerability and stress. But more than this, you want them safe.

“Rhaenyra has them,” Daemon says, clothed arm disappearing below the water’s surface to cup the fullness of your belly, testing the give of it. He does not seem surprised by his findings, though his palm remains firm to your skin. His expression is neutral, if forced, belied by the stiff set of his shoulders and the thin line of his mouth. “They’re fine.”

The whisper of worry flitting in the very back of your mind dissipates like smoke, a lingering doubt you had not known existed until its disappearance. It allows you to fully descend into your labours, to block out the world around you as age-old instinct takes over.

Your awareness ebbs and flows with the spasms of your belly, just barely cognisant of the ever-enduring heat of the water surrounding you—Daemon’s work, you think, for his voice rumbles harshly even if you pay little attention to the precise sounds he forms—and the unrelenting throb of your lower body, cramping and seizing and working its way to a grand finish. The draughts of tea fed to you by Ūlla do little but blunt the edge of pain, transforming sharpness to a bottomless, muscular ache, so intense that your mind cannot pinpoint the source of it even if you logically know the way of things. The babe moves impatiently within you, reminding you that there is a prize to be won for your great suffering.

They are eager to depart the prison of your body. You are eager to let them.

Soon, the pain grows too great to abide. Your heavy breaths turn ragged, then to moans, giving the hurt a sound with which to herald it. Your belly drops low, almost between your legs, so tight and hard to the touch that you can trace the outline of the child’s rump through paper-thin flesh.

“I want to get out,” you gasp, startling all who surround you. It does not seem so sudden to you, though you suppose so long without action had lulled the others into complacency. “I want to get out.”

You flail for a moment, entirely incapable of bearing yourself up, but your uncle’s sure and steady frame holds firm as he guides you to standing, supporting you as you step out on each wobbly, unsure leg.

“Careful, my girl,” he says, or perhaps he only mouths it to you, presses his fear and his love from his lips to your ears. “That’s it…”

The water you leave behind is cooler than the air that clings to your slick frame. After the attendants cursorily dry you off, you lean into Daemon, fighting the natural urge to sink with the heft of your womb, to meet the cool ground below with the rippling solidity of skin that feels ready to burst. Naked as the day you were born, you move forward and forward and forward, grunting with the strain of it, for it hurts now to even walk, to do so simple a feat, your thighs unable to come together from the protruding spread of your middle and the deep threatening sting of your stretching inner mouth, an immense force just waiting to cleave it open from inside.

Your pulse pounds away behind your eyes as you reach the birthing stool, finally giving in to that all-encompassing desire to lower yourself, not to the seat, no, but to your knees before the chair, fists curled around the snarled wood of its frame and nails digging into the surface.

“You should sit on stool, Princess,” Ūlla says behind you, or mayhaps before you. It is so, so hard to tell. “I can help—”

“No.” Daemon responds for you, on his knees by your side. His voice is firm, unyielding. “This is where she wants to be.”

Speech is beyond you now, but your hand jerks from its iron grip to swing outward, seeking him. He takes hold, fingers wrapping around yours. You squeeze tight as the pressure mounts.

“You know me,” you wish you could tell him. “You know me to my soul.”

“I’m here,” he murmurs aloud, other palm flat to your back, pushing down against your lower spine. It brings a strange relief, though it does not ease what you feel. “I’m here, sweetling.”

The babe bears down, and so do you, imagining it in your mind’s eye as you strain. You feel lightheaded, unable to breathe, and you think you might be making some horrible noise that emanates from your gut with the force of your muscles contracting. Your legs tingle, your arms shake, your entire frame overcome and overtaken by the focal point between your legs.

“Good girl, Princess!”

A damp, warm towel presses against your opening, and then heat bursts inside, no, not heat, fire, stinging and blazing, and you wonder if you really have caught alight inside, burning from the inside out, for nothing could be more painful than this slow and excruciating torment. You feel like a wounded animal, snarling and cringing away from itself, unable to escape as each swell comes faster and faster, blurring and rolling into one single, irrevocable chasm.

Oh, how it hurts—

You must age ten summers by the time it all reaches its very worst, most searing agony. You rip apart, it is the only way you can describe it, and you do not even know if you are right and you have split open from navel to back, a great mass making itself known right at the precipice between you and the open air. A shriek rattles around the room.

“Feel that, boy—the head—”

“I can feel it—”

Daemon laughs once, quick, exhilarated, forehead collapsing atop the base of your skull as rough digits feel along the stretched seam of your entry, mapping the circumference of this new babe.

“A big one, is it not?” he asks, terrified and overwhelmed and overjoyed all wrapped into one.

“Very big. Push hard, Princess, very hard—”

And it is very hard, so very hard, but you are not alone. Daemon is here. He is not just lounging about and indulging in ale and raillery with his comrades like any lord would. He is here with you as you bring this child into the world, feeling what you feel, holding fast rather than backing away. The very essence of him melds with yours, and you picture yourself grasping onto it tightly, no longer afraid. Whatever happens now, he is here.

If you live, it is here with him. If you die, it is here with him. The pain will fade, but the joy? Oh, it will bloom, sure as the sun rises each morn.

You feel your belly constrict and you bear down, panting shallowly, ending in one long, shuddering scream and a gush of fluid.

A beat, and then a cry.

You wilt in relief, sobbing openly as the babe lets themselves be known, their angered protestations drowning out any praise or felicitations. It is done. It is done. You made it through, and you knew you would, but still, it is glorious relief that fills you. It burns to fall back on your haunches, right in the mess of liquid on the bedding sprawled between your legs, but you make yourself sit upright in time for Ūlla to pass you the babe, squirming and squalling and covered in blood and muck.

Daemon’s lips press firm against your temple as you take your son into your embrace. “Thank you,” he whispers, but you scarcely notice.

“Look at him,” you say, staring down in shock, surprise, wonder. “He’s here.”

You did not know if you would see him and feel love when the time came. Now it is over, and you cannot imagine why you had ever thought you would not. He is large, much more so than Rhaenar or Aelys were, both in size and plumpness. Your arms are still shaking, held up with Daemon’s assistance, but even so, you can feel how heavy he is, how substantive. His skin is purpled, but that is fading, flushing from the force of his wailing. Tiny fingers, tiny toes, tiny cock—“that’ll grow, I hope,” Daemon says—and, rather oddly, a matted thicket of blonde locks, dark, not silver like his siblings, like his papa, like you.

“My mother’s hair.” Your uncle’s fingers tremble as they stroke across the top of his new child’s head, as if touching a memory brought back to the mortal plane. When he speaks next, it is a choked sound, wrenched from his gut. “He is beautiful.”

The babe’s cries slow to snuffles, nosing along your breast as he starts to root, and you help him shift to latch on. It is familiar enough now that the sensation does not surprise you, so you pay it no mind as you continue admiring your son.

The world turns quiet and small. The people around you speak, move about, but you hardly hear them through the fog that settles over you. Laying your head against Daemon’s shoulder, you sag into him, exhausted. Your womb continues to squeeze upon itself, though it is milder now, or perhaps you simply cannot care to focus on it anymore. Your body works to expel the afterbirth, and it soon enough exits onto the towels and cloths you sit upon, followed by a rush of warmth.

You feel Daemon tense. Your heart beats rapidly, in a peculiar rhythm.

“Give him to me,” Ūlla says, pulling the child from your breast.

He was not finished—he fusses, legs kicking, and you try to take him back, but you are too weak from your labours. You barely have the energy to protest. She passes him to a midwife, and he is carried away, still whining.

“What’s happening?” Daemon barks. She ignores him.

“Time to get up,” she tells you. Though her voice is calm, you sense her urgency. “Bleeding, more than I like. You are okay, Princess.”

You try to stand, but your legs are limp under you, wobblier than a foal’s. Your vision spots black, sickness rising up your throat, and you shake your head. I cannot. I cannot. The words will not come.

Daemon lifts you from the ground himself, forcing you to shut your eyes lest the sudden movement sends any remaining contents in your stomach spewing from your mouth. You catch a glimpse before you do—of sheets and towels soaked in wine-dark, marring the white of them irreversibly.

One moment you are in the air. The next, you are laid out on the bed, atop a lumpy woollen covering that is most decidedly not your mattress. Attendants rush around you, wiping your skin with rags doused in warm perfumed water, and lavender wafts through the air, tickling your nose. Your legs are parted for the healer to check over you.

“Mm. Tear. Small. But womb bleeding, too,” she mutters, packing cloth between your legs. The pressure is gentle. “Not good.”

“You will fix it.” It ought to be a question, but Daemon’s tone is not at all querying. It is a demand, or mayhaps a rare avowal of confidence.

“We see.”

You care not to ask what is in the tincture she pours into your mouth, earthy and bitter and foul, coating your tongue and sliding unpleasantly down your gullet. With eyes remaining shut, you let yourself focus only on the orders Ūlla gives you: when to hold the tincture she keeps feeding you inside your mouth, when to swallow in small increments, when to wash it down with wine watered down with milk. Your fatigue is too great for fear. If you were more alert, perhaps you would be thinking again of Laena, whose bed of blood was the prelude to her inevitable passing only days later. Or maybe of your mother, your grandmother, your great-aunt, or any of the other women of your family who had faced these same circumstances and lost their lives. But you cannot. It is too taxing.

At some point, a thin blanket is tucked carefully over your naked form. You had not realised you were cold until your skin is shielded from the room. Floating in twilight—eerie in how it detaches you from your surroundings—you continue to take in the healer’s medicines every few minutes, your mind fixed on your children.

You want your babe with you. You want Rhaenar and Aelys. It feels wrong now to be empty, to not feel the weight of a child kicking in your belly. It frightens you.

“I want my son,” you say. It hurts to talk. “My son…”

“Soon, my girl,” Daemon tells you tenderly, palm to your cheek. Through slitted eyes, you see his sleeve covered in blood. Your blood. “Sh.”

“Sit up now, Princess,” Ūlla says, bustling around the bed to help shift you up and lean back against the pillows.

For an instant, you are afraid the movement will renew the pulsing wet below, but you try anyway. You do not feel so dizzy as you blink, taking it all in after so long in self-imposed dark. Everything appears kaleidoscopic, an edge of unreality to the mundane objects and clutter that fill your bedchambers. The healer sits beside you, staring straight into your eyes with fingers pressed to the inside of your wrist.

“Well? Is she alright?” In your periphery, your uncle is pale, the weathered lines on his face pronounced with how tense his every muscle is. He stares down the healer with so much intent that it would make a lesser man wish to jump out of his own flesh.

It is silent—then, she relaxes, turning to regard him. “Yes. Heart is calming. Bleeding slower. Sleep, and eat, and then rest will take care of her best now.” To you, she asks, “How you feel, Princess?”

“A bit dizzy,” you say. “Tired.”

“Yes, yes.” She chuckles, passing you yet another dose of milk and wine. You do not like the taste in combination, but it settles in your stomach and warms you well enough, satisfies the hunger that is beginning to rear its head. “After that big boy? You earn it!”

“Where is he? I want him.”

Obligingly, she nods and moves away. One of the midwives—Lina, you think—brings a wrapped bundle forth, though your view is momentarily shrouded by the shift that is tugged over your head. You accept the attendant’s help in dressing, pulling the fabric down to your waist. A thick coverlet is draped across your lower half.

“We give you more tonic, make sure bleeding is done. And I will stay a while and watch,” Ūlla is saying. You are only vaguely aware of her, far too absorbed by the heft of your child delivered into your waiting arms.

Finally, finally, you are at ease. The babe is clean and dry, drowsing after being swathed in blankets, though you loosen them to examine him fully. The cord at his belly has been cut and tied off with string, the stump of it as odd to see as it had been on your twins. You can see him clearer now. He is all Daemon, from the shape and set of his eyes to the slope of his nose, capped off with tresses that mimic the shade of his papa’s mother.

You glance at your husband. He has had the wherewithal to change his shirt, and while he now appears unmarred, his expression is haunted. You are not worried as he must be, though. If you were going to die, then surely you would feel fainter and the cover below you would be soaked with gore. Instead, you feel clearer, restored if not fully hale and hearty, even if the ache of so much exertion is beginning to throb between your legs.

You reach out to him. He returns to you, shuffling in until he is by your side, pulling you into the crook of his arm. His hold is tighter than necessary, almost uncomfortable, but you do not mind. If it is what he needs to reassure himself that you are safe and well and here, then you will accept it gladly. You lay your cheek against his chest, the both of you watching your newest son.

The babe is so different from his older brother and sister. And yet, you feel as though you have known him all your life.

“What should we call him, then?” Daemon’s voice is hushed. Again, his palm caresses along the boy’s hair. It seems it is something he is most fascinated by, and you cannot blame him. A long time has passed since he had received such a reminder of one he loved so dearly. “Shall it be Rhaegar, or Daeryx?”

This is how you named the twins: he had come to you with two names he liked best for each and put it to you to make the final choice. Aelyx or Rhaenar. Valaena or Aelys. Your only true condition had been that they would be names no other Targaryen in recent history had been given. It is difficult enough to carry the visage of a ghost—worse still, you imagine, to bear their epithet and know that you would forevermore be compared to some hero of an age past, always falling short. Even so, you know Daemon has a particular partiality to Visenya and Baelon. Perhaps you will eventually grant him these, one day. You have many years of fertility left.

“Hm.” You study your son. All you can see in him is your uncle, and oh, how it wrenches you to your bones and sweetens the very air you breathe. Your heart decides before you are truly conscious of it. “I think… Daeryx.”

Daeryx, Daemon. Daeryx, Daemon. It is a perfect homage.

“Rhaenar, Aelys and Daeryx. They fit well.”

They do. You are tempted to ask that the twins be brought to you, to have your whole little family together, but you know that you are too drained to entertain excitable infants at present. It can wait. You have all the time in the world.

For a long while, you sit together in silence, just staring at Daeryx. You stroke his tiny knuckles, the arch of his feet. You trace the line of his mouth, the curve of his ears. You lean down to take in his sweet, perfect scent, of milk and skin and love love love.

You and Daemon do not need to speak, not truly. But when he opens his mouth, you already know what he will say, and you hoard his words greedily, storing them in the place in your mind where all your most precious memories reside.

“I have waited all my life for this,” he confesses, low and raw and real, never once looking away from your son.

He does not just mean Daeryx, this you know. This is a child of his own, three now where he had barely been allowed to hope for one. This is a family he could feel respected by, trusted, like he belonged. This is a home, full of light and love, something that had for so long been out of reach. And not just for him.

“So have I,” you whisper back, kissing his collarbone. “So have I.”

“Ah. Gentle, please.”

Your lips quirk fondly as your little brother coaches Aelys, grasping firm to her elbow to guide her hand slowly. Aelys makes a funny aaah sound as her palm settles on Daeryx’s head, her fingers clumsily petting through his hair.

“Isn’t he nice?” Daeron asks, careful to make his voice soft. “Daeryx. Can you say it? Dair-icks.”

Aelys beams gummily, wiggling on her bottom. “Dair.”

He shrugs. “Close enough.”

“Pa,” Rhaenar adds to the conversation, clapping excitedly. He has been squirming ever since Daemon lifted him onto his lap. “Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa.”

“Yes, darling?” Daemon asks indulgently, bouncing his knee only once.

Your eldest smacks his father’s knee, then points at the sleeping newborn nestled next to him. “Ba.”

“That’s right. Baby. This”—he lifts his arm, bringing Daeryx closer—“is your brother. He is small, so be careful.”

Your uncle could not look prouder if he tried. Holding both his sons, his daughter right beside him, he is the very image of a devoted papa, his exuberance bursting out despite his paltry attempts to school his expression. He almost seems overwhelmed by it. With three of them now, you cannot blame him. Even you find yourself disoriented by the fact that you are outnumbered by these strange little creatures straight from your body.

These next days, weeks, moons will be hard. From what little you know, little you have witnessed from the sidelines when watching your elder sister bear one then two then three boys, ensuring each child feels equally seen and loved by you shall be the most important task. You suppose you know what not to do, though—had your father not devoted all his care to a single child, neglecting the other and outright ignoring the ones to come?

That will not be me, you vow.

Even now, when they are young and have yet to become their true selves, you cannot fathom allowing any of them to think they are not just as valued as their siblings. It makes you wonder what your father has been thinking all these years. It makes you question whether or not you can really blame your younger brothers for any deficit they possess. If you had been the boy Father craved, the one he all but murdered your mother in pursuit of, and you had known that not even possessing a prized cock between your legs was enough to warrant any moue of notice or care, what would you do? To what would you turn—and to whom?

“You are all so far away,” you say. Trapped under the covers as you are, you pat the space beside you. There is plenty of room for them all. “Come sit with me.”

Daeron readily takes hold of his niece, and she cleaves to him with the easy grip of someone who knows full well that they are surrounded by love. He brings her to you, lazing about on the edge with a careless affect and easy grin. You kiss your daughter’s face and scent her sweet-smelling hair once she has crawled to you, tucking her into your side as Daemon rounds the other side of the bed. He sets Daeryx on your lap, dropping Rhaenar at your feet. The boy cackles as his papa descends to tickle his belly, wriggling across the mattress toward your brother.

“Get back here,” Daemon growls playfully, grabbing his ankle and dragging him backward.

Rhaenar squeals as he is beset once more, the flurry and chaos inevitably drawing Aelys into the fray. She inserts herself as she so typically does, demanding attention that is readily granted. Quickly enough, both are shrieking with delight as Daemon launches his attack, the sight enough to make the normally reticent Daeron belly laugh. The commotion does not seem to concern Daeryx overmuch—he blinks up at you, stirred by the noise but disinterested in determining the cause. All he seems absorbed by is his mama.

It is such magnificent anarchy, here in your apartments. Your head begins to throb from the pitch of your twins’ joy, matched by the ache that spans your entire body. None of that matters. It all pales in comparison.

Once, you had worried about how you might manage sharing your love with a new child. You worried it would mean less for Rhaenar and Aelys, or that you would not have anything left to give Daeryx. That love is finite, fixed, and that you must carve it up as best you can. But it is nothing like that at all. Love, you now know, does not falter. It doubles, triples, multiplies upon itself with each person to whom you give it. The wellspring never runs dry.

I cannot love them any more than I do right now, you think as you look upon the scene before you, listing them out in your mind as if carving their memory into stone.

Daeron. Daemon. Rhaenar, Aelys, Daeryx. Rhaenyra, too, and Jace, Luke, Joff, Laenor, Baela, Rhaena, Corwyn. Helaena, and Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, whom you know not if you will ever meet but you will cherish all the same. There are more people now than fingers upon which to count them.

This is the most I will ever feel such love in my life.

You are wrong. You know you are. Love grows and grows and grows. And that is the greatest truth of all.

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#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x you #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon fanfiction #daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon x oc #daemon targaryen x reader

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kmt123whatsthetea · 11 months

Text

Babies on the Brain

George Weasley x reader

Requested by @hahahafucku

Request gist: smut where George sees you holding Fred baby and he feels the need to give you one of his own.

A/N: thanks for the request. I carried on Fred and Angelina’s romance (Freds not dying in my world and George is ending up with the reader instead). I've never been good at writing for breeding kinks (I say like I'm good at writing other things) so I'm sorry if it sounds cliche or cringy or if it's just downright terrible. I don't know if I went a bit overboard on the before smut stuff.

T/W: unprotected sex, soft dom George, breeding kink, praise, kitchen counter sex, ginger baby (jk)

You and George had met in your first year of Hogwarts but your slow build up to a couple started after your fourth year. You had known him for years. His parents loved you, his siblings loved you, and he adored you. You loved his family, from his caring mum, to his mischievous twin, and finally his young sister (who was thrilled to have another girl in the family).

Speaking of George's mischievous twin, you couldn't believe the news when you heard that he was going to be a father. This was a boy who (with his twin) had set a firework dragon on a ministry of magic worker, had stolen a flying car, and had tested joke shop products on first year students back in Hogwarts. He was going to be a brilliant dad.

Those months went by with you and George helping Fred and Angelina with anything they needed, from trips to St Mungos to shopping for baby accessories. Throughout this time, George began to keep a closer eye on you. He’d zone out when you recommended baby grows to get his future niece or nephew or when you’d buy baby products so that the expecting parents were prepared.

A week after Angelina gave birth, she and Fred brought the little one round to meet the family. A little boy who already shared the Weasleys trademark fiery hair. Angelina passed him to you, letting you hold the baby whilst she went for a well deserved rest (Molly had persisted that she looked tired and could take a nap in Fred’s old room). You bounced the little baby in your arms, unaware of your boyfriend watching you from the doorway.

He didn't want to admit it, but seeing you with a baby in your arms made him weak in the knees. He wanted it to always be like this. He wanted the baby in your arms to be his. He'd always thought about having kids with you someday, but this was a wake up call. And the call was answered by that voice inside of him, telling him to make you his and only his.

————————————————————————

Once you got home to the small house that you and George shared, you went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. All you had been talking about all afternoon was how adorable Fred’s baby was with his tiny button nose and little toes. George stalked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, his face immediately going to the crook of your neck to press soft kisses to the skin.

“You’d make such a perfect mum to our kids”.

His words made you freeze. At first, you didn't think you’d heard him correctly, since his face was still tucked into your neck. But he made sure that you would listen.

“I bet you’d look so beautiful carrying our baby. So full and swollen…so full because of me”.

At this point, he was slowly rocking his hips against your ass. His cock slowly got harder while he left kisses along your collarbone. Small breathy moans slipped past your lips, his words and grinding getting you wetter by the second. You pushed your hips back against his, wanting nothing more than for George to take the hint and fuck you into the countertop. His hand splayed across your stomach through your clothes, muttering a soft “Want me in here, sweetheart?”. Your small whimper and frantic nodding had him smiling to himself. He wanted you to admit that you wanted this, he needed you to admit that you wanted him to do this.

“Need you to tell me what you want, love. Tell me how much you want to be full of my cum”. His breath on the shell of your ear caused you to shiver and turn your head as much as you could to look him in the eye. “Please George, fuck me. Fill me up. I want to be full”. Once he made you beg, he pulled your dress up and pulled your underwear to the side, knowing that it would take too long to pull them off. George pushed his trousers and boxers down, before pushing into you with one thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. His pace was quick and desperate from the moment he was inside of you. His cock felt amazing. You had both had sex without protection before but it felt somehow better when you didn't have to worry or take precautions. Your moans were sultry and erotic, and George swore that he had never heard a prettier sound (apart from the sound of his hips slapping against the plush of your ass).

His hand trailed its way down to tease and play with your clit, wanting to make you cum first. He had always insisted on cumming after you. His mouth was next to your ear in a second, his voice dripping with lust. “That's it sweetheart, milk my cock like a good girl. Show me how much you want me to cum deep inside you. Cum for me and I’ll stuff you so full of my cum that you’ll be carrying twins”. His thrusts got sloppier but his small circles on your clit got more determined. All it took was one final thrust to have you cumming around his cock, your walls clenching tighter than before. George's hold on you got tighter as his cum flooded your insides, not a drop going to waste.

After you had both caught your breaths and calmed down, he pulled his cock out. Pulling your underwear to its correct spot before whispering in your ear “Keep it all in there love, I’ll check tonight and if even a drop is gone, I’ll just have to fill you up again”

#george weasley fic #george weasley #george weasley x you #george wealsey x reader #george weasley smut #george weasley x fem #george weasley x y/n

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wanderingsoul6261 · 22 days

Text

Stuck with Me

Credit for gif goes to aaronwarner

James Beaufort x Reader

Synopsis: James and Reader are secretly dating. Elaine finds out and started to treat Reader terribly. Reader is an Ellington, sister to Elaine, twin to Alistair. When James finds out what Elaine had been doing, he does to comfort the reader.

Product of a series of requests that had explained similar scenarios.

warning: suggestive themes, but no details. Probably bad grammar and editing. I tried. Finished it in a rush before work. Will probably edit later.

-------

The two of them were honestly surprised that they had been able to keep their relationship a secret as long as they have. James and Y/N both went to a school where a majority of the students were too smart for their own good. Although, it wasn’t even the school that they were surprised about keeping the relationship from. It was their siblings. Y/N was not only a close and confiding friend to Lydia, but she was also an Ellington sibling. A twin to Alistair, older sibling to Elaine.

They were definitely trying to hide things from Elaine. If she were to find out, it would be the end of the world. At least for Elaine that is.

James and Y/N had wondered for some time on what would be the best way to keep this secret. It wasn't like they hated each other, so they couldn't use that. Y/N had in fact spent as much time around James as many others have. They had even considered fabricating a lie. Making up an event in which it would give the two no rhyme or reason not to hate each other.

But then they remember who one, they were related to, and two, who they were friends with. It would have been a difficult one to pull off, no less keep afloat. So the two continued to bounce ideas off of each other, and had finally decided to keep interactions around others to a minimum.

They give each other fleeting glances when passing each other in the hall. If they sit next to each other in a classroom or just anywhere that will allow them, an arm or leg are barely brushing against each other. When addressing each other, they say their names. No nicknames. No usage of ‘hey’ or anything else. Just their names. If they sit on a bench, James allows his arm to rest on the back of it. They continue their normal mannerisms, and maybe that's why no one has caught on just yet to their charades.

James and Y/N had the undivided attention of each other but in some way, they wanted more.

—

Y/N was walking Lydia when They bumped into James, Alistair, Wren and Cyril. The two girls stood shoulder to shoulder.

“I'm just saying. You guy are twins. Don't you have that mind thing that allows her to know what you're thinking? Or when you feel pain?” Cyril flicked Alistair in the forehead. Alistair had looked unamused, but Y/N felt otherwise. An amused smile graced her lips as she glanced momentarily at Lydia.

“Ow.” The monotone voice and stare of Alistair caused a small snicker to come from Y/N. The four boys jumped, caught off guard by their company. Y/N eyes flickered to James, flashing a smile before Cyril pulled her away from her spot next to Lydia.

“The girl of the house. Y/N, seriously. You guys don’t have that twin telepathy thing going on? Did you feel it when I flicked Alistair's forehead?” Y/N looked at him, then her brother.

“I didn't feel anything. Sure you used enough force behind it? It was really light. Like a feather.” Cyril dropped his jaw, not expecting the comeback. “It's okay Cyril. Some women like the light touch of a man.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her like he was trying to read her.

James smirked as he looked at Y/N. She looked around the small group of people. Wren was waiting for an answer, one of which Alistair didn't want to hear. Lydia now looked just as amused as Y/N did. Then her eyes landed on James. He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking into a small smirk.

“I prefer not to tell.”

“Way to keep a man wondering.” Cyril drew Y/N's attention back to him.

“You're not really a man, Cyril. A boy, maybe. But a toddler fits the image better.” Cyril took a stagger back, a hand to his chest. “You wound me so.”

“Good. You can ask James and Lydia the same question.” James instantly shook his head.

“I don't know. Do you want me to flick your forehead and see if I can feel it?” James looked at his sister.

“Do you want me to flicker your forehead and see if I can feel it?” James flashed his sister a cheeky grin before turning back to Cyril.

“You can do it.” Cyril looked at Lydia, who glared at him, albeit playfully. He shook his head.

“I prefer life.”

“Good choice. Anyways, I'm off to class.” Lydia bid the group goodbye. Cyril, Wren, and Alistair were next to leave.

“Alistair!” Y/N called out to her brother. He looked back. “Don't let the toddler pester you too much. They can be pesky little buggers. Can't they?” He flashed her a smile at the same time Cyril turned back and flipped her the finger.

Once they were gone, Y/N turned to James. He was already smiling at her.

“Do you like soft touches?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, his smile turning to a smirk.

“Wouldn't you like to know.” His hands itched to touch her. James looked up and down the hallway, making sure no one was there before pulling her into an empty room.

He pushed her up against the wall. His hands entangled themselves in her hair. Y/N looked up at him, her fingers combing through his hair. She brushed his hair out of his face.

“Playing a dangerous game every second both of us are in here.” Y/N said.

“I had to have a few seconds with you.”

“Well since both of us are in here, kiss me already.” James pulled her to him, capturing her lips in a kiss. He took it slow, holding her against him. She put one arm around his neck, while her other hand moved up his shirt, settling on his waist. James sucked in a breath at the touch, before moving his lips from hers and up along her jaw.

“How’s this for soft touches?” He whispered.

“Mm. Too soft.” James pulled back enough to look into her face. Y/N smirked at him. A low rumble could be heard on his throat, as he captured her lips into a searing kiss, pushing her further against the wall.

And when they finally left the room, little did they know that someone watched them exit minutes later, both looking slightly disheveled, and exchanging a few chaste kisses in what they thought to be a quiet and empty hallway, before going their own way.

—

Over the course of the next few days, Y/N had received glares and mistreatment from some of the students on campus. James had tried talking to her about her sullen mood lately, but had gotten nothing. Lydia had even tried to talk to her, but Y/N wouldn't even talk to her about it.

And she felt bad, but going to a school where one person was always out to get the other, she didn't know who would believe her. Even if she knew that her boyfriend and best friend were the ones most likely to do just that.

So she received the mistreatment and said nothing. Most of it came from Elaine, her sister. The sneers, the ‘accidental’ bumps, the nasty comments. All from her own sister.

Y/N could make an assumption, as she watched her sister talk to James from the end of the hallway. Her sister brushed up against James, her hands moving his hair out of his face just as Y/N does in private. He had shrunk away from her, a slight look of discomfort on his face. She watched as James politely excused himself, before walking the opposite way from where Y/N was standing.

Elaine knew about James and Y/N, and now part of Maxton Hall did too.

She watched as Elaine stood for several seconds, watching James walk away, before she turned her head and caught Y/N watching her. Elaine sent her a sneer, before starting to walk towards her. Y/N waited for her and whatever kind of mistreatment that she would bring.

“Do you really think that someone like him could love someone like you?” She asked. Y/N stared at her.

“We are sisters Elaine. We have the same blood and genes.”

“He will be mine. James will forget about you, and he will come running to me when that happens.” Elaine had a smug look on her face as she spoke to Y/N. “It's expected Y/N. No one could or would ever love you.” Y/N knew at that moment that Elaine was also talking about herself. Elaine finally turned to walk away.

“Oh. And Y/N.” She stopped and turned. “We aren't sisters.” The last little bit of Y/N's heart crumbled as she watched Elaine walk away. Her hand reached into her pocket, and with shaky fingers, she got ahold of their chauffeur. Y/N wanted to leave.

—

Y/N had opted out of going to class, and hasn’t been in for several days. Their parents were away for business trips and even when they were home, she played it off that she was either sick or had a migraine, which wasn’t too hard to pull off. Alistair had brought home her homework. Lydia and James had also kept her in the loop about assignments, but other than that, she didn’t speak much to either of them.

Y/N had finally told Alistair what had been going on and how Elaine had been treating her. This also, therefore, had spilt the beans about Y/N’s and James' secret relationship. Y/N had thought that Alistair would have had an issue with it, just as Elaine did, but if anything, he was happy for his sister and best friend. Elaine wasn’t good for James anyway.

I told him

Y/N stared down at her phone, looking at her brother’s message to herself. She laid in bed, her face buried in the pillow, sullied with tears as she thought about the last few days and how she managed the situation. It was the wrong way to do so, and she knew it. James and Lydia should have been told, instead of being ignored in the way that they were currently.

She deserved to be hated. They had every right to be bad at her. Instead, they were the opposite.

Lydia had also messaged her, being gentle about it, even if she was upset that Y/N felt that she couldn’t go to her about Elaine. Lydia never liked her to begin with.

Then there was James.

He had only sent Y/N one message.

I’m on my way. J.M.B

She had smiled at his message, finally sending him one back.

<3 Your F/M/L initials

Y/N had only waited a little bit before James was bursting through her bedroom door. He stopped in the doorway.

“Y/N.” His eyes traveled over her face, taking in the appearance of her tear stained face. “Oh love.” James hurried over to the bed, kneeling down on the floor. He brought her face into his hands, using his thumbs to wipe away any tears on her face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know who would believe me.”

“I would have. You know that.” He said. James searched her eyes, seeing nothing but pain and regret. “How long?” He asked. Y/N swallowed thickly, averting her eyes and face away from him. He grabbed her chin with his hand, moving her face so that she looked at him again. “How long, Y/N?”

She stared at him for several seconds, before looking at his neck, avoiding eye contact.

“A week. More or less.” Her voice broke, remembering how she was treated. It would have been different had it not been her sister that treated her in the way that she did. But it wasn’t different, and it was her sister, so there was no changing it. Y/N sat up on her bed, her legs hanging over the side. James grabbed her hands, holding them in his own. He brought them up to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“What did she do?” He asked. Y/N pulled her hands away from his, rubbing her eyes. James settled his hands on her thighs, rubbing his hands up and down them to help soothe her nerves.

“The normal thing a bully does. Sneers. Snide comments. Bumping into them. Shoved me in private, degraded me here at home…” She trailed off, her hands settling on her thighs next to his own. James grabbed her hands again, rubbing his thumbs against her knuckles as he listened to her.

“Is there something else?” She was silent for several moments, trying to find a way to phrase it.

“I shouldn’t let this bother me because I really don’t like her right now, but she told me that we weren’t sisters.” James stared at her in silence for several moments. She stared at anything but him, feeling small in the current situation. “Also told me that she would have you at some point. That you would basically grow tired of me and go to her to give you what I can’t.” she mumbled softly.

“And what can’t you give me?” he asked. “Because you have given me all that I need and more.” James reassured her. He stood up, settled his hands on her cheeks, and brought her into a searing kiss, before pushing her back on the bed.

“What are you doing James?” she asked, staring up at him, confused.

“I’m going to show you how much I appreciate you.” He pushed the blankets off of her. “How much you make me happy.” James looped his fingers in the shorts and panties she wore for sleeping, pulling them down. “That there is no other woman I want other than you.” James pushed her shirt up slightly, laid on the bed, and began pressing kisses to her stomach, moving down. Soft kisses were pressed to her navel, and then on the inside of her thighs. His eyes never left hers, wanting to take in her appearance as he showed her just how much he loved her. One arm looped around one of her thighs, while the other searched for her hand. Her fingers looped with his. “You’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”

-----

taglist: @honethatty12 @lifeonawhim @ashamedtobewhitemanswhore27 @maryvibess @wheredidmyeyesgo @imasimptoowth @avada-kedavra-bitch-187

#james beaufort #maxton hall #james beaufort x reader #maxton hall: the world between us

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attapullman · 7 months

Text

Domesticated | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: On a lazy Sunday morning with Robert Floyd and your twin girls, you're reminded exactly how well he takes care of your family. And you.

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings & Notes: Robert “Bob” Floyd x f!reader, 18+ ONLY as always, smut, unprotected p in v, creampie, daddy!kink, children, reader has given birth, mentions of pregnancy, food mentions, slice of life vibes, unrealistic depiction of toddlers. This is repurposed and heavily edited from another fic of mine, so if you recognize it...glad to see we're enjoying the same fandoms. Daddy!Bob makes me so damn feral...Lewis has been giving dad vibes this fall...so this is sooooo entirely self indulgent. Sorry not sorry.

The early sun seeps through the thin curtains you bought last summer, the ones you assured your husband would keep the bedroom dark. You were wrong, but he’s never corrected you. Soft cotton rustles beneath you as you turn to your side, burrowing your head in Bob’s chest to enjoy these last few moments of quiet. Enjoying the way his fingers trace along your back as your breaths fall in sync. His eyes flit to the clock on the nightstand, disappointed it’s already six.

As if on cue, the patter of tiny feet sound across the hallway toward where your husband holds you.

The bedroom door flies open and in come your twin girls. Alice and Iris bound into the room, giggles following their every step. You and Bob exchange looks before shutting your eyes, focusing on evening your breathing to mimic sleep. If they fall for your trick they’ll go back to their room to play on this sleepy Sunday morning.

No such luck.

Iris launches her body onto your husband, and Bob flies up in surprise, nearly launching the toddler into space. He catches her in midair and the two exchange matching shocked expressions in their blue eyes. Her sister clambers on her father as well, hoping to join this “hop on pop” game he’s unknowingly created.

From your position still pretending to sleep, you admire Bob. Robert Floyd is everything you could want in a life partner. As a husband, he is attentive and sweet, willing to work through the good and the bad. As a father, he is loving and involved, prioritizing his daughters as much as possible while gunning for admiral. In the five years since you said “I do” he has done nothing but improve your life. It was the best decision you’ve ever made.

Aware of your attention, he catches your barely open eyes and smiles. His hair sticks up in the back from the pillow, and a thick chunk of sun-washed blonde falls over his forehead. He raises a hand to push it back, but the strands are stubborn without product. Bleary cobalt eyes are rubbed before he reaches across the nightstand for his glasses. Once Bob can clearly see he holds the toddlers and bounces them lightly on his knees. Fatherhood is second nature to him, taking to the bumps and joys like he was born for them. Your heart soars with love for the three special humans sat before you.

Knowing your sleep facade is over, you fake a big yawn and sit up, scooting closer to your family. Arms outstretched, Alice clambers into your lap, her bedhead tickling your chin. You smooth down her hair, a soft press of your lips to her crown before leaning over to peck another onto Iris’s cheek.

Bob looks at your expectantly, left out from your affection. The tiniest of pouts on his lips. You lean forward over both girls to leave a chaste kiss on your husband’s lips. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, gorgeous.” The smile doesn’t leave your face until well after your children have dragged you out of bed in search of breakfast.

Once in the kitchen, you lean a hip against the butcher block counter, glancing over the oatmeal packet in the midst of deciding if you want to boil water or use the convenience of the microwave. Two hungry mouths make the choice. As you pop two bowls in the small appliance you feel a presence behind you.

“May I have breakfast too?”

He’s giving you his best puppy eyes, those bright blue bespectacled eyes hopeful. Food always tastes better prepared by his wife. Strong hands wrap around you, squeezing your hips. You’re immediately helpless. “If you sit at the table like your daughters I can possibly make you something to eat. Eggs sound good?”

Your smiling husband nods his agreement, already heading to the kitchen nook where the twins are drawing the images inside their minds. He settles into a sturdy wooden chair, his jean clad legs spreading out under the table, the faded Navy recruitment t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders as he grabs a crayon to make his own scribbles. Well, scribbles in the way crayon can depict only so much of a fairly detailed Super Hornet he’s been working on all week.

The microwave beeps as you finish up the eggs, completing the four breakfasts as you bring them over. A fresh cup of coffee in your spot from when he noticed you were low.

“I knew there was a reason I married you.”

His cheeks blush dusty rose as he dips toast into the runny yolk of his egg. Some days he can’t believe you agreed to marry him, that you wear his ring and bore his children and make sure he leaves each morning with a kiss and a reminder of how much you love him. He’s the luckiest man alive.

Breakfast is enjoyed amongst the chatter of your toddlers. Silence is rare in the house. If there isn’t a fictional tale they’ve fashioned about a toy, it’s continuous questions about inanimate objects and things they’ve seen. Once Bob fell asleep watching the music channel and the girls found themselves watching old KISS videos for an hour.

It was a personal hell mixed with a nightmare hearing them describe everything in graphic detail to Bob’s parents during Friday night dinner.

As you finish your eggs, the twins prattle on about the latest nursery school drama. You’ve never met Connie, but she sounds like a right ol’ jerk for a three year old. Bob nods along passionately, giving his full attention over his nearly empty coffee mug. You have no doubt he will be bringing this up at the next school conference.

With breakfast out of the way, there’s only one other responsibility on a lazy Sunday in the Floyd household. Grocery shopping.

Alice makes a big deal of wearing the socks with a red trim, one of which seems to be missing, and the next half hour is dedicated to Bob and you crawling around the second bedroom peering under furniture. Bob pleads with her to wear any other sock to no avail. No socks if she wants. Thankfully you locate the lone article under some books. How did that get there?

Bob pushes a jacket onto your shoulders with a soft kiss to your cheek as the family trudges out, two toddlers in tow and a long grocery list between your fingers. You turn to give him a proper peck, feeling the slight upturn of his lips as you linger a second longer than necessary.

Once in the store, twins strapped in the cart that their father pushes, you compare the list to the surrounding aisles. Concentration broken by tiny hands pointing out anything shiny or brightly coloured, their favourite characters on the packaging. Bob isn’t much better, subtly adding specialty trail mixes into the cart. You remind the group there’s a list - an agreed upon list - but try saying that to three pouty faces with their hearts set on crackers shaped like planes. “Just like Daddy’s!”

How could you say no to that??

As the car pulls into the driveway of your home, the rear mirror reveals two small faces fast asleep. Alice’s thumb is lodged between her lips, a habit she can’t seem to break, while her sister looks angelic with both hands tucked beneath her head with pouty lips. They look so much like Bob when they sleep, not a care in the world upon their smooth brows.

“Looks like we have two down,” you whisper to Bob. He looks back at them and has to stifle a laugh.

“If you put away the groceries, I’ll get them down for a nap.” You open your mouth to protest. It’s a lot to handle both. “You do all of this yourself when I’m deployed. Give me this.”

Robert Floyd continually makes you fall in love with him.

Car doors open and shut before he’s laden down with a child in each arm. The sight sets off something in your stomach, and you focus harder on grabbing the bok choy that rolled out of one of the bags.

You’ve busied yourself putting groceries in their respective places when you feel hands wrap around you for the second time today. “Thank you for putting away the groceries, my beautiful wife.”

His face is buried in your neck, nose tracing the junction of your shoulder as he breathes in your scent. Those strong arms, veiny under a coat of sun-lightened hairs, tighten around you. He’s missed afternoons when it was just you two, galavanting around the house without little ears to hear.

You twist in Bob’s arms, intertwining your own arms around his lithe waist. Any space between you gone - just two hearts beating as one as you gaze into each other’s eyes. One dexterous hand slides up your back before weaving its way into the strands of your hair. The other slides down to settle above your bum. His fingers twitching to stroke along the seat of your jeans. The desire you felt earlier raises its head again as your eyes trace along his smooth, strong jaw and kind eyes.

“You know, the girls are asleep.”

He chuckles. “Yes?”

“They’ll probably be asleep for another 45 minutes. Maybe an hour if we’re lucky.”

“What are you thinking, sweetheart?”

You widen your eyes and pout your lips ever so slightly. Run your finger down the front of that sexy faded shirt he only wears on the weekends. “I need some adult time with you…Daddy.”

As if a switch has been flipped, Bob’s eyes go from a soft blue to indigo, his grip on you tight. Lips descend upon yours. As your bodies collide, already so little space between you, a moan is trapped between, its owner impossible to identify.

Time sensitivity leads to urgency, and he’s backing you out of the kitchen toward the bedroom, his hand refusing to leave your ass. Steady kisses to your lips and jaw leave you in a trance as you wind your way down the hall. The door closes and you pounce, wrapping your legs around his waist as those strong arms show their strength.

Your mouths are hot and wet, tongues battling for dominance as you commit this feeling to memory. His hands around the back of your thighs, thin lips slotted against yours, the breathy moans when you play with the hair at the back of his neck. The pressing need to be as close to him as possible, soaking in his essence in the short time allotted before having to share him again.

“Daddy, I need you.” Your voice is breathless and needy, mouth glossy as he nips along your neck. Hips roll into yours as he groans against your skin.

Bob has always been dominant in your relationship. He spends enough time letting others call the shots, but in the bedroom he makes the rules. But his Daddy kink didn’t rear its head until you showed him the pregnancy test with the two little lines. It was the tension in his shoulders when you whispered he was going to be a daddy. The little moan when you said it again later that night while he kissed along your thighs. Ever since the term of horny endearment got him hot and bothered in seconds.

He gently pushes you onto the bed, standing between your thighs as he hungrily admires the mother of his children, his wife, the hot girl in the bar his squadron watched him moon over before finally making a move. The erection straining behind his jeans twitches as bespectacled eyes trace over the swell of your breasts.

“I love your body.” His voice is almost soft as he runs his fingers over your top. “It’s so sexy.”

You chuckle through your moans, enjoying the delicious feeling of him stroking your nipples through layers of fabric. When he pushes the hem up your stomach, eyes intensely focused on every inch of exposed skin, you sit up and pull the offending fabric from your body. Nimble fingers slip over your back as the hook of your bra is undone, a sigh of relief leaving you as your breasts are freed.

“The best part of you having kids? Your tits got huge.” His hands cover the flesh, expertly kneading his favourite part of you impatiently. “They barely even fit in my hands anymore.”

A gasp forces itself past your lips as he tugs a nipple sharply.

Soft lips wrap around the bud he isn’t teasing, wetting the skin before pulling back to blow air across your hot skin. You whimper at the sensation, thrusting your chest toward his mouth for more. He offers you an unsympathetic smirk before switching his torture to the other side. Your jean-clad hips buck up against his as quiet, strangled cries fill the air as he plays with you at his own whim.

A glance at the clock reminds him that he can’t enjoy you as he’d like. Leaning back on his haunches, he treats you to a little striptease as your chest heaves in a desperate bid for more attention.

His arm reaches behind his head, pinching the fabric of his shirt. Your mouth fills with saliva, desperate to lick along the vein that protrudes along his bicep. He pulls the shirt over his head, revealing milky skin tantalizingly slow, revealing his strong chest and those broad shoulders that you’ve spent many a night thinking about. You gulp as images flood your brain of sitting on those shoulders as he tongues fucks your pussy.

Your underwear is thoroughly soaked by now.

He lowers himself against your body, sponging kisses along every inch of skin he can reach.

“What do you want, baby girl?” His nose bumps you as lips tease your ear. You mumble a response, desperate for anything to soothe the burning beneath your skin. “What’s that?”

You wail as he rubs your covered cunt. It feels so good, but you want more. You need more.

“I-I need you to fuck me.” The words are breathless as they escape your panting mouth. Lips brush your ear again as he whispers Ask nicely against your skin. “Please fuck me, Daddy.”

The groan that escapes Bob’s mouth is so sexy it’s surprising you don’t orgasm on the spot. Especially when you glance between your legs to see he’s pulled down his faded jeans and briefs to reveal his cock hard and ready, his hand stroking along the thick length as precum beads at the shining head.

Desperate hands explore his skin, warm and calloused in all the right spots. The scar along his shoulder from a childhood accident. The freckle on his side right where he’s ticklish. The hair on his forearms you daydream about. From that first night at the bar when he approached you, nervous but friendly, you’ve found it hard to not jump his bones. And now with him between your thighs, on display in the sunlight through the curtained windows, you’re dizzy with attraction.

Lips attach to your chest, smattering spit slicked kisses and soft nips in no particular pattern. Loud moans erupt from you at his attention. Bob smirks against your skin. “Shhh, baby. You need to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me?”

You nod furiously and lust-filled eyes narrow at you. “You sure? Last time you were pretty loud.”

Shit, you had forgotten about last time. Your orgasm out of control as you moaned for him, letting your husband know how well he handled your body. The stars that sparkled before your eyes as ecstatic cries floated to the ceiling. Only to be brought down the next morning when your children worried about scary noises in the night. The desire in your gut outweighs worry as your hands wind around his shoulders.

“I promise I’ll be quiet. I’ll be a good girl, I promise.” The words are but a whisper, pleading for your Daddy to be merciful to you.

Strong calloused fingers explore between your bodies as he twists open the button of your jeans. Rough fingers skimming soft skin as he slides them down your thighs, dragging the flimsy fabric of your underwear down with them. You do the rest of the work, kicking denim from your body, the telltale thump showing they’ve made their way to the floor.

A satisfied hum vibrates through Bob as he dips his fingers through your folds, arousal coating each digit as he thoroughly inspects. “Mmm, my good girl is all wet for Daddy, isn’t she?”

You nod enthusiastically. His fingers feel incredible, but you want nothing more than the slightly curved cock occupying your thoughts. He tucks a hand under your chin and brings your eyes to his. Loving smiles exchanged before he settles into the task at hand and confirms your desires. “You ready for me, baby?”

Agreement barely passes your lips before he tilts his hips, slowly ramming that thick cock into his favourite place in the world. Allowing you time to adjust while still pushing deeper, knowing you enjoy the stretch. Your bodies rock together in a a rhythm only you know, skin flushed with the shine of sweat. His lips dip into the hollow of your throat as he sinks deeper, sucking and licking like your skin holds all the answers to the world.

Your fingers tangle themselves in his hair as you hold him to you, addicted to the way your bodies fit like a puzzle, perfectly seamless. Your husband, your Daddy, your Bob, custom fit for you. He nips the spot below your jaw and you tug at his hair desperately, ripping a growl from his chest.

“Oh, you want to play that game? Let’s see how you like my game then.”

He pushes up to rest on his haunches, using his strength to handle your body as he desires. Guiding your hips up to meet his raised hips, he spares you one devilish grin before slamming back into you. Sharp thrusts that shake your body, malfunctioning your brain with pleasure. One hand snakes its way to your breast, squeezing the flesh as he rolls his hips harder and deeper into you. You’re so close to the edge that one extra touch and you would surely come undone.

"That's a good girl, tell Daddy how much you like it when I fuck you."

A hand flies to your mouth as he plucks your hardened nipple between his fingers, delighted in the obscene sounds you emit as he uses your body for both your pleasures. Your other hand finds your clit, sighing as you careen into the beginnings of an orgasm.

Your legs shake around his hips, his thrusts slowing as he focuses on filling you deep. Making you feel as full as possible. His rough thumb swiping over your nipple as he whispers, “Cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your brain turns into white noise as you cum for your Daddy, spasming around him while your fingernails make half-moon indents along his skin. The pent up pleasure escaping through every pore as you hold your moans behind closed lips. Your body collapsing to the cushions as sense returns to your limbs.

Smiling with half-lidded eyes of lust, Bob leans over you to press a sweet kiss to your lips. His hips still rutting into you as you whisper how good he feels against his lips. Begging him to fill you up. He remembers a day when he could last rounds before giving you his spend. But after a week without your body, your orgasm has triggered his and quickly his thick cum coats every inch inside of you as he whispers his love into your ear.

Shaky, shallow breaths and hushed I love yous are the only sounds as Bob rolls off you, sinking into the pillows as he wraps an arm around you to bring you to his chest. His fingers tap against your shoulder as he steadies his heartbeat. A glance at his watch shows there’s still fifteen minutes alone before little feet interrupt.

“Honey?”

You hum in acknowledgement and roll your neck to gaze at your handsome husband. He looks every bit post-fuck with his hair at every angle and his glasses still slightly fogged on the edges, his chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat. You can’t resist dragging your fingers through the light trail of blonde hairs between his pecs. He is so handsome.

He takes the hand resting on your shoulder and shifts you both, facing each other with half-lidded, happy eyes. Legs tangle together and his arm loops around your head to support your neck as he gazes into your eyes. He always has and always will give the best cuddles.

A soft flush reddens his cheeks as he goes through with his question. “Do you think…d’you think we just made another baby?”

Your eyes widen as you take in his question. Quite possibly. You weren’t on the pill, and sex was so infrequent with two toddlers in the house the practice of finding a condom wasn’t commonplace anymore. It hadn’t even crossed your mind to ask him to pull out.

“We might have.”

He nods slowly and strokes a hand over your hair, deep in thought.

“Is it bad that I’m kind of hoping we did?” He’s embarrassed to say it out loud.

You smile and press a kiss to the closest skin available. “Not at all. I’m kind of hoping so too…Daddy.”

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