Duke Of Blüdhaven

husband!robert robertson who loves washing your hair, massaging your scalp and feel you melt into him. who loves detangling your hair and form your curls between his fingers filled with curl cream. then diffuses your hair so your neck doesn't get sore.

husband!robert robertson who still doubts about you liking his scars so you always make sure that he feels worshiped in his skin.

husband!robert robertson whose favorite moment of the day is lying in bed with you in his arms, the sheets cool but your body is enough for him to keep him warm. he keeps you close by the waist, your head in his chest and your hand tracing the lines of his scars that you memorized. you aren't really talking about anything, but every once in a while you make a little comment that makes him laugh or he says something that makes your eyes roll. it's perfect for him.

husband!robert robertson who loves lazy sundays. he doesn't have many free days, and the sundays are the only day he gets to really relax and do nothing. he loves to wake up late with his chest pressed to your back, getting up only to make breakfast and go back to bed.

husband!robert robertson who grabs your hand all the time in bed, lifting it to have it at eye level and watches your gold ring like it's sacred. he doesn't really know why, but he's mesmerized by the sight of the ring on your hand.

husband!robert robertson who will never admit it but actually adores romantic teenage tv shows and movies, you have caught him more than once staying up late watching the latest episode of the summer i turned pretty.

husband!robert robertson who is so sarcastic it’s exhausting sometimes. not mean, never cruel, just that deadpan humor that makes it hard to tell if he’s joking until he breaks into that crooked little smile. you’ll be in the middle of folding laundry and he’ll mutter something like, “ah, yes, my dream saturday night activity: sorting socks with the love of my life,” and then wink when you throw one at him.

husband!robert robertson who uses sarcasm like armor when he’s feeling small, pretending he’s fine even when he’s cracking a little inside. you know the difference now, the sharp-edged jokes that mean please don’t look too closely, versus the soft teasing that means i feel safe with you.

husband!robert robertson who’ll mutter “wow, what a tragedy” when you finish the last cookie, or “no, no, i love holding forty-seven grocery bags” as he struggles up the stairs. and yet, somehow, you end up laughing every time.

husband!robert robertson whose sarcasm fades into something gentler when the world goes quiet. when he’s half-asleep, his voice muffled against your shoulder, whispering things that aren’t jokes at all. “can’t believe you picked me,” he says, and for once there’s no irony in his tone.

husband!robert robertson who doesn't use petnames except when he's talking about you, he always refers to you as 'y/n, my wife'. he alos gets flustered every time you use a petname on him, he gets so red if you call him 'pretty boy' or 'handsome'.

husband!robert robertson who will never admit how much he loves laying on top of you, head between your breasts, leaving little kisses in each once in a while. his hands grabbing your sides and you running your hands through his hair and neck, making him shiver when you reach a sensitive spot.

husband!robert robertson who stares at the wedding pics almost every month, remembering one of the happiest moment of his life, only to lift his head and seeing you napping in the couch with beef tucked in your lap.

His voice had that strained, polite edge he only used when he was barely hanging on.

“Work… was a mess. And you weren’t answering your phone. Again.”

You smirk. “Missed me?”

He exhaled once through his nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh — stepping closer, hands slipping to your hips like he didn’t remember deciding to touch you.

“Sweetheart,” he said calmly, eyes dropping to your thighs then snapping back up, “I’ve had a long day. And if I don’t get what I’ve been thinking about,”

his thumbs press firmer,

“we’re gonna have a problem.”

You blink. “And what exactly have you been thinking about, Robertson?”

He doesn’t blush.

He doesn’t stutter.

He doesn’t lose composure.

He simply sinks to his knees.

Smoothly.

Purposefully.

Like a man who’s been planning this all damn week.

Then he sits back on his heels and looks up at you — brown eyes dark, steady, focused with the same intensity he uses when giving life-or-death orders over the comms.

“Nothing,” he says quietly, firmly, “but this.”

His hands trail down your thighs as he adjusts his position on the floor — back straight, shoulders squared, expression serious like he’s taking on a mission briefing.

You raise an eyebrow. “You planning some kind of worship scenario?”

He huffs a short breath. “Planning? Sweetheart, I’m offering you a throne.”

And then, with devastating calm:

“Sit.”

And thus, that is how you’ve been for the past couple of hours — trembling, slumped over him, thighs shaking around his head as you hover above his mouth. Your release streaks warm down your legs, mixing with the slick from his tongue and the shine of his spit, all of it soaking into the sheets beneath him.

Your whole body feels wrung out, your voice raw from the sounds he’s pulled from you. Your fingers curl weakly in his hair, tugging because you barely have the strength to do anything else.

“R-Robert… no more…” you breathe, the plea breaking apart into a thin, wavering whine.

He answers with a low, dissatisfied grunt — the closest he’ll allow himself to sounding feral — and keeps going, undeterred. His lips, his tongue, even the faint scrape of his stubble… every tiny movement sends another pulse of heat through your overstimulated nerves.

Your clit is so sensitive you flinch every time his nose bumps you, every time his mouth shifts. Your whole body jerks with each touch, thighs quivering violently around his head.

“R-Robert—” you try again, voice trembling.

He just tightens his grip on your hips, holding you steady above him like he’s refusing to let gravity or exhaustion steal you away. His thumbs rub slow, grounding circles into your skin — the only mercy he’s offering.

This man is going to kill you.

You can feel the determination radiating from him, the way his breath huffs hot against you, the way he refuses to give you even a moment to fall apart properly.

Every swallow, every groan, every small shift of his mouth makes you see white behind your eyelids.

Your legs nearly buckle, and he responds by pulling you down closer — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you whose throne you’re sitting on.

His voice finally rumbles out beneath you, low and hoarse, vibrating against your core:

“Not done.”

And you realize —he absolutely means it.

He’s not stopping until he decides you’re done.

Until your legs give out.

Until your voice breaks.

Until you physically can’t say his name anymore.

Robert Robertson III — former hero, dispatcher, polite menace —is going to worship you to death.

You’re beyond words at this point — the noises spilling out of you aren’t even moans anymore, just broken, delirious sounds you can’t swallow down. Your body trembles like you’ve been hit with a live wire, vision fragmenting at the edges.

Robert is a disaster beneath you.

His SDN uniform shirt is completely soaked from your earlier releases, chin slick, hair damp, the entire front of his pants ruined — a dark, obvious patch spreading across his thighs from where he’s come in them again and again without ever touching himself a second time.

And he still refuses to stop.

You whimper something that might be “enough,” or “please,” or maybe just his name — you’re not even sure — and try, with the last remaining strength in your body, to lift yourself off him.

It’s a mistake.

A growl rips out of him — low, sharp, warning — and then everything flips.

Your back hits the mattress before you even register he moved. Robert pins your hips down with both hands, his grip firm but careful, dragging you back to his mouth like you’ve offended him by trying to get away.

His lips close around your clit again, and the shock of overstimulation makes your spine bow clean off the bed.

His arms lock around your thighs.

You can’t move.

You can’t breathe.

You can only take it.

He pulls another orgasm out of you, painful and bright, then a second, then a third — each one tearing through your nerves until you’re shaking so hard you’re practically vibrating under him. At some point you start crying, overwhelmed, and he still doesn’t stop until your body goes limp.

Then — only then — does he finally pull away, breath ragged, eyes unfocused with how far gone he is.

He pushes himself up on trembling arms, chest heaving. With a strained groan, he shoves his ruined pants down just enough and releases over your stomach and hips — weak, barely-there pulses that tell you he’s as spent as you are.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you panting like you’ve nearly died.

You stare at the ceiling in a daze, chest rising and falling too quickly.

You’re never letting him go down on you ever again.

You also know — with painful clarity — that you’re lying.

Because it happened again the next week.

And the week after that.

And the week after that.

Robert Robertson III doesn’t know moderation.

He only knows devotion.

And once he decided his face belonged beneath you…there was no undoing it.