#tw miscarriage

It was a pain you had felt twice already, and it did not take proof for you to know what was occurring once more. Soon your nightgown would be tainted crimson and you would apologize to your husband for your failings. 

Whispered prayers fell from your lips but you knew them to be useless. The Gods were deaf to your desperate pleas. 

“My love?” came a gentle call from the bed, and Valarr sat up suddenly when he heard only a harsh, shaky breath for answer. “Are you unwell?” he pressed.

No words came, and he was quick on his feet, coming to your side and reaching for you. He gasped as he saw crimson on white. “We should call for the Maester.”

“There is nothing to be done!” you cried out. “All we can do is let it run its course.”

Valarr sat at your side in the cool breeze and held you through the night as you sobbed quietly, hiding his own silent tears. 

The next time your breasts grew tight again, and your days were disturbed by bouts of nausea, you kept the news a secret, forcing yourself to appear at court as though nothing was wrong. If it was meant to end in a loss, then you would rather suffer it in secret—however as weeks went by and your body fell into an ease you had never known before, you could no longer hide from your husband.

Valarr was as understanding as you could have expected. He praised you for your strength and only lamented that nature was such that he could not relieve you from the burden of childbearing. 

This time you also waited to announce to the king until the quickening was felt, hiding your frame under looser gowns. The Maester was confident that all would be well this time, and both you and your husband truly believe your tragedies were over.

However, it all came to a heartbreaking end one afternoon, when Valarr was at council. It had merely been a few days since he had proudly announced to his father and grandfather that their line would continue through him, and all had met the news with joyful prayers.

Baelor was grooming him to take on his role one day, serving him as Hand when he would himself be king, and to start such a tradition, of having heirs being Hand to their fathers, made Valarr proud of his heritage. He could now hope to do the same one day. 

“What say you, Valarr?” Baelor asked, always eager to hear his side, but before he could answer, one of your maids came running, interrupting the discussion. She curtsied hurriedly, a look of panic upon her face. 

“My apologies for the interruption, my lords,” she cried out, then turned to Valarr. “You must come, my prince, your wife is calling for you.”

Valarr did not wait for his grandsire to dismiss him. He pushed his chair back, dragging it against the stones, nearly toppling his cup when he set it down. “The baby—” the maid tried, but could not finish.

Valarr was already in the hallway, running towards the royal quarters, the young woman on his heels. As he rounded a corner, he nearly tumbled into another maid, who held a soiled sheet in her arms. The linen was tainted with bright red, and it turned Valarr’s stomach.

Before he could reach your chambers, a great, piercing wail cut through the air, and Valarr knew of the tragedy that had befell you. For a moment he froze in the middle of the hallway, a sob tearing through him, but he could not think of his own grief—he allowed the agony of this loss to breathe in him for a second, then swallowed it, and ran to you.

The walls of the Red Keep had seen many babes born too soon over the centuries, and such a loss was acutely felt each time. Since that day, you had been in a slumber, your eyes staring into a void only a grieving mother knew. 

Setting his own grief aside, Valarr made a decision then, when after three moons, the Maester declared the loss to have passed and your body to have healed enough for another pregnancy.

One morning after breaking his fast he walked up to the Hand’s tower, where his father was writing in a ledger—the man set his quill and ink down and gave him a small smile, gentle and welcoming. 

“You wished to see me, my son?” he asked. Valarr took a deep breath, and faced his father’s gaze unwaveringly. 

He knew what his stance had to be, no matter the disappointment he might face. “I cannot put her through this again, father,” Valarr announced, forcing his voice not to break. “I am sorry, but the heir to the throne will not come from me, and your line will end, were Matarys to fail as well.”

Baelor frowned, setting the parchment he had been holding down. “Do you believe this information is a disappointment to me, that it requires an apology?” he inquired.

“Does it not?” Valarr retorted. “I am your eldest, your heir, and I cannot give you the third in line to the throne.”

“The fault is not with you, my son, nor is it with your wife,” Baelor said, hurrying to reach the end of his sentence when Valarr frowned. “What would be a disappointment to me, would be if you would try continuously at the peril of your wife’s life.”

Valarr’s shoulder dropped, his breath leaving his lungs. “Oh,” he said, and at that Baelor gave him another one of his small, benevolent smiles. The kindness in his eyes soothed Valarr rather, and it made him want to reach out like a small child, seeking comfort in his father.

“I would not think you so cruel as to risk her life over and over again, even for the sake of the crown. Matarys will marry, and even if he does not, you have cousins. Your heir could come from Daeron, or even Aegon, further down the line,” Baelor explained as though it was already acted.

Valarr nodded. “He would have to be named by royal decree.”

“There is still time, Valarr. Trust that the Gods know of your fate,” Baelor said, wise as usual, then nodded towards the door. “For now, be with your wife, and comfort her. She needs you now more than the realm does.”

With a last parting smile, Valarr obeyed, walking to your chambers feeling much lighter than he had felt in weeks. Grief was still holding his heart in its crushing grip, but the future seemed less grim now than he had had his father’s reassurance.

He found you resting in a warm bath near the hearth, lounging in milky water from the soothing soap the midwife had recommended. He knelt aside the copper tub, picking one of your hands up and pressing a greeting kiss to it. 

“Where have you been?” you asked, out of sheer interest. You were held in such care in here, encouraged to rest and heal for as long as you needed, but you longed to know what was happening outside of the walls of your chambers.

“I went to see my father,” he replied, and you knew from his tone that there was more coming. “I have told him of my decision to stop our endeavors, of trying for an heir.”

“Valarr,” you protested, although rather weakly, but your husband did not let you finish. 

“I cannot call myself a good man and continue to inflict this suffering upon you,” he defended. “I will not risk your life.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and he knew then there was nothing he could say to ease your pain. Instead he sat and held your hand, pressing the back of it to his cheek, and breathed in time with you. “I know I have failed you in this, and I am sorry,” you finally said, voice thick with sorrow. The hollow space inside of you throbbed, dull and sharp at the same time. “I will pray for forgiveness for all the remaining days of my life.”

Valarr dipped his head and hid his eyes from your gaze. “Then I shall pray alongside you, for if you are in need of forgiveness then so am I,” he said as fervently as he could, then pushed himself up on his knees, and kissed your temple, where a loose strand of hair fell.

No matter Valarr’s attempts and his kind understanding, there was an emptiness in your breast, at the pit of your stomach, and you could see the same grief in his eyes, no matter the grace with which he bore it. In his mind, he could not grieve, for you were the one suffering in your flesh. Sometimes you saw tears in his eyes when he thought you were not looking, and you were unsure how to reach out for him.

To have him cry in your arms would bring you comfort, you thought, knowing you were not alone to carry this burden. Bringing those thoughts to prayer with you, you spent afternoons kneeling in front of the Weirwood tree in the gardens of the Red Keep.

The smell of the earth and the firm pillow under your knees grounded you—or it usually did, up until one afternoon when footsteps came behind you. No one dared interrupt your time of quiet contemplation, and you could only guess who would. You smelled his peculiar scent before you saw him appear at your side, with a red doublet of velvet and light, short-cropped hair.

“Aerion,” you said, but it was a dismissal more than a welcome. Still, he stood at your side, uncaring.

“No need for hostility, my good sister. I simply wanted to offer my condolences,” he said with a rehearsed tone. “What hell must it be to endure.”

“Now that you have, would you please be so kind as to leave me alone,” you retorted, but instead of taking his leave, he sat at your side, leaning against the solid trunk of the tree.

Closing your eyes again, you tried to cling to your prayers and to ignore his eyes boring into you, until he spoke. “Has it never crossed your mind that perhaps the fault is not in you, but in the seed?” he suddenly murmured, his breath hot on the side of your face.

Nausea rolled in your stomach like a tidal wave and your eyes shot open. “What are you…” you murmured, horrified.

“Perhaps another seed would succeed in giving you the child you want,” he grinned.

Rising in a hurry, you loomed over him for a moment. He looked up at you, sun in his eyes, and his angular face looked gaunter for it. “This is a heinous suggestion,” you protested, feeling like you might be sick.

Aerion rose in turn, coming face to face with you. “I’m sure I would succeed,” he promised, and before you could react, he continued, freezing you in place. “Think of Valarr, he is second in line to the throne, he needs an heir. He might still seek an annulment and be in his right.”

“No,” you shook your head. “He would not. He is a better man than you.”

Aerion’s grin grew sharper, uglier. “Are you so certain? He may feel this way now, but it could change, years down the line, when he’s Prince of Dragonstone?” he pressed. “And what of the king or the hand’s orders?”

A flicker of doubt crossed your face, and Aerion relished in it. “It would ruin your name, but I would take you as you are, you need not worry about prospects,” he offered, one of his hands reaching for your arm.

Unable to stand his presence and his words, you fled without answering, the mere ghost of his touch haunting you. For a moment you contemplated clinging to your doubt, but in the end your instincts carried you all the way towards your husband’s chambers.

Valarr could not get the words you had reported to him out of his head. It was in Aerion’s nature to be cruel, but something in his bragging sounded false. He would not care about the line of succession, about Valarr’s legacy, and in his endeavors to boast about his own great blood in the past, he had never been so vicious.

For an entire day and night, Valarr wondered—your last pregnancy had held farther than the others, and the only thing you had done differently was wait to announce it. For weeks you had held your breath and no tragedy came, only did it strike like when the announcement was made, like the Gods were laughing at your attempts to counter fate, or as if an evil ear in the Red Keep was waiting in the shadows, ready to spring. 

Such a thought was beyond horrendous, just as much as it was treason, however as soon as it was planted in Valarr’s head it grew like a seed, like a weed, and thorns cutting him up from the inside.

There was only one way he would ever know, and so Valarr sought out his cousin, finding him easily in one of the Keep’s halls. Taking a deep breath and reasoning with his heart’s desire for justice, he stopped himself from requesting they speak in private—he had enough self-knowledge to perceive he could not trust himself in private with Aerion.

“What have you done, Aerion?” Valarr accused without a greeting, and Aerion sneered.

“Cousin, you’re going to have to be more precise than this,” he replied, popping a nut or a seed of some kind into his mouth, then turning to the table once more. He reached for a cup and a pitcher.

“What have you done to my wife?” Valarr continued, knocking the cup out of his hand.

Aerion turned to him with a flourish and an annoyed expression. “I simply told her, that should you wish for an annulment after this fourth loss, I would be graceful and take her as she is,” he said with a melodic tilt to his voice, as though this was laughing matter.

For a second, Valarr could only hear his own breath, disbelief a veil over his eyes, and then the quiet ended and the rush of his own blood in his ears deafened him. The coldest, most cruel feeling of betrayal slammed into him and horror spread over his face. “It is you, isn’t it? You are behind these losses.”

Aerion laughed and made a dismissive gesture, attempting to walk away. “Do not be ridiculous, even I cannot control the laws of nature.”

Valarr said to his back. “My guards are searching your rooms as we speak.”

Stopping in his tracks, Aerion’s shoulders lost their nonchalant roll and stilled into one line, and when he looked over his shoulder, the look on his face told Valarr everything he needed to know. 

“Why, Aerion? Why would you stoop so low?” Valarr meant to simply ask, but his voice rose without his consent. His cries resonated under the high arches.

Aerion turned to face him once more and his offended look morphed into outrage. “She deserves better than you,” Aerion sneered, vaguely gesturing to his head—was it his face, his hair, his heritage? Was it his character that was under attack? “She deserves a true dragon.”

Valarr could not bring himself to care about the insult; there was nothing left in his chest but devastation. “Four babes, Aerion! Four children you have taken from me!” he howled, the sheer agony of it scraping his voice raw. 

Guards around started to gather, coming from the adjacent hallways. Aerion squared his shoulders and curled his hands into fists—Valarr had not even realized he had done it as well. His ears were ringing like he had taken a hit while wearing his jousting helmet, his whole body prickling with hot and cold at the same time.

“You shall never approach her again, or I swear to all seven gods, you will die from my hand!” he roared, and he must have done more than that, because soon his knuckles were throbbing and there were hands holding him back, stern voices calling his name.

In the end, it was unclear who struck the first, but it took three guards to separate them, and two to hold Valarr down. Aerion laid sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, crimson tainting his clothes and splattered in his hair, but it was not nearly enough for all you had bled and suffered.

Valarr could not stand to stay in the capital a day more, and risk more harm to your person, therefore he wasted no time to whisk you away. He barely waited for the king’s order that Aerion should be exiled for his crimes against his cousin and against you, and ordered his household to pack and make way for Dragonstone.

The fortress was always magnificent, but as you crossed its threshold once more, it brought you a sense of safety and security you had lost in the Red Keep. While the capital had been your home for years now, you and Valarr had been allowed to stay on the island for a month after your wedding day, and you supposed your husband hoped that you would find the same peace and contentment that you had back then.

“Everything has been readied for us,” Valarr informed you as you settled into the main living quarters.

It had surprised you that he had not led you into the guests quarters, even though Baelor had never claimed those rooms who were his by right, instead choosing to remain in King’s Landing, serving as hand. They were bare of any personal possessions, and now they would be yours for the stay.

“Are you glad I brought you here?” your husband asked, and in his questions you heard all the words he could not bright himself to say.

A deep sigh left your chest, your shoulders losing some of their tension. “Yes, thank you. How long shall we stay?” you inquired. 

“I have asked a favor from father,” Valarr explained, coming to you and taking your cloak from your shoulders, gentler than what was needed. “Dragonstone is ours, until matters are settled.”

“Matters?” you asked quietly, your hand finding its home in the crook of his.

Valarr eyes bore into yours then, bright blue and warm brown, and there was as much love as a gaze could hold in both. “The Maester confirmed the poison retrieved from my cousin’s chambers to have caused it all. He believes there should be no impediment now,” he said, kissing the back of your hand.

No smile came to your lips at his words, despite the reassurance you knew to be true. You still daren’t let hope into your heart, no matter Valarr’s own trust that you would prevail.

For days you lived in this strange fog, reading between the lines of Valarr’s careful questions and gentle assurances. Most of your time was spent in your quarters, and you savored the presence of your husband at your side. There was no council to take him from you, no other preoccupation than looking after one another, and it lifted a weight from your shoulders you thought had been grief.

The fourth night on Dragonstone found you sitting on the rug in front of the hearth, bent over a work of embroidery while Valarr watched you, a forgotten book on his lap—his gaze admired your profile in the soft glow, and you felt so close and yet so far, he wanted to weep. 

“What are you making?” he asked quietly, almost afraid of spooking you.

Valarr saw the way your gaze flickered from your work to him, then to the fire, and he held onto your every breath, his chest cracking open, ready to receive your answer.

“A swaddle,” you finally replied, and that word was enough to send hope galloping in Valarr’s chest. You had made one for each of your babes, even if they had all served as shrouds.

“I would not ask this of you, not before you are ready,” Valarr said carefully, his voice barely a whisper.

For a moment he thought you would fall back into silence, and he would have to wait until you reached out for him, touched him, or sought him out. However he would not have to wait so long, for you turned to him, setting your embroidery aside. 

“Is that why you have not shared my bed since we lost our last babe?” you asked, and the longing in your eyes mirrored the one in his heart.

Valarr sighed, not from tiredness but from the breath he had been holding, nearly choking himself with it. “I would rather die than to hurt you,” he replied, his voice thick, wavering.

Tears clouded your eyes in turn. “I have died every night you have not touched me,” you whispered.

Valarr threw his book aside and fell to his knees on the rug, taking your face between his hands. His kiss tasted of salt, of his tears and yours, and he nearly sobbed when your hands burrowed under his light evening shirt, finding his skin. Your palms were cool and yet they felt hot, like a brand on his ribs.

“Then I shall come back to you tonight, and never leave your side, whatever may come,” he vowed. 

“Whatever may come,” you echoed—I am yours and you are mine, whatever may come—those were the vows you had spoken on your wedding day, sealing them into your very soul and flesh, and on that night you felt them live through you, feeding the small seed of hope you could feel settling into your womb.

Dividers by @/saradika. Not beta read. Based on this request.

A/N: Would anyone be interested in a sequel? Something fluffy and smutty where Valarr dotes on his pregnant wife, and then later on his newborn baby.

PLEASE REBLOG AND/OR COMMENT TO SHOW SUPPORT ♡

Valarr taglist: @thenameswinter99 @targaryen-dynasty @aneurins-barnard @multyfangirl @phia004

“I was okayed by my OB. I feel good, better than I have this entire pregnancy! I’m working because I want to.” You stood firm.

“Well, I don’t like it.” Robby crossed his arms, looking over at Dana who was also looking less than pleased. “Light duty, Dana.”

“Way ahead of you.” Dana nodded, putting her glasses on.

“Rude.” You shoved him.

“Bunny, take it easy today. Please?” Jack stood in front of you, hands on your biceps.

“I won’t overdo it.” You promised.

“Call me if you need me. Take breaks and eat something substantial. I have spies, I’ll know if you don’t.” You could tell he was nervous. You were too, but you needed to put on a brave face.

“I swear. It’s going to be fine.” You kissed him.

“Okay. I’m going to bed. Be good.” He smiled as he walked off.

You looked up to see Robby still scowling at you. You stuck your tongue out at him and walked off.

“Nurse Robinavitch! You’re back!” Mel came bounding up to you.

“Hey, Mel. You can call me Bunny.” You smiled as she pulled you into a quick hug.

“How are you feeling?” She readjusted her scrub top, clearing her throat.

“Good. The worst seems to have passed.” You watched her fidget with her watch, a nervous energy rolling off her.

“That’s nice. Nice to hear about something good. And you’re showing! That must be so exciting.” She smiled.

“I suppose so. It’s nice to have a real reminder that they’re in there.” You watched her eyes dart around the treatment area. “You okay?”

“Um, yes. I just…I applied for a fellowship here and I have my interview later. I’m a little nervous.” She sighed.

“You’ll do great! You’re one of our best. Just remember that you’re a good doctor with a unique experience to offer.” You smiled.

“Thanks. You’re good at pep talks.” She said as she ran off to her patients.

The day went by rather smoothly. Dana kept a close eye on you, making sure you didn’t take on anything too exhausting. Maybe it was the baby bump, but patients seemed to be calmer and kinder to you. You wouldn’t complain.

You were setting up a fluid pump for your patient when you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned to see Dana, waiting with a deeply unamused face.

“Finish that up, then it’s lunch time. Past it.” She sighed.

“Alright, I know.” You mumbled as you set the fluid rate. “Okay, Mrs. Griffith, your fluids are going. You might get a chemical taste in the back of your throat; that’s normal. If you get cold, don’t hesitate to ask anyone for a blanket.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re very good at this.” Mrs. Griffith smiled.

“Thank you. I do my best to keep the poking to a minimum.” You nodded.

“No, I mean you’re good at that too but taking care of people. You’ll do great when that baby comes.” She gestured to your belly.

“Oh. Um, thank you.” You were hit with a wave of emotion, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Just hit the call button if you need anything.” You cleared your throat.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to get you crying.” Mrs. Griffith offered a sympathetic smile.

“She’s alright. Those second-trimester hormones are a force to be reckoned with.” Dana wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you out of the bay.

“Sorry.” You mumbled as the two of you walked into the break room.

“Nothing to apologize for. I get it.” Dana pulled out your lunch box and set it in front of you.

“I don’t remember the last time I cried with a patient.” You sighed, pulling out your sandwich.

“It happens.” Dana shrugged as she pulled a protein bar from the cupboard. “When I was last pregnant, I couldn’t go ten minutes without crying over something.”

“It’s so weird. I’m starting to feel like a different person.” You sighed, taking a bite of your food.

“You are.” Dana smiled, sitting across from you. “That’s part of this whole process. You’re growing, not just physically. That baby will change you in ways you can’t even begin to understand. So did the first one.”

You looked up at her with wide eyes. You weren’t used to people talking about your first pregnancy. Everyone avoided the topic. But you often thought about that baby, that possibility. On occasion, you’d bring it up to Jack. The two of you would talk about what you thought they would have looked like or who they would have been. Both of your therapists encouraged it. Most of the time, it hurt too much.

“They started moving a while ago.” You said.

“Yeah?” Dana watched the emotions flash across your face.

“I didn’t get this far last time. I didn’t get to feel them. It’s so weird. I thought it would make me feel better, a physical sign that they’re still there. But, it makes me more nervous.” You sighed.

“More nervous?” Dana asked.

“I’m attached. Not that I wasn’t before, but I’m so in love with them, and there is so much more at stake now. I loved my first baby, I always will, but I barely got any time to register their existence before they were gone. I’ve spent time with this baby, I feel them. I don’t know if I would survive losing them.” You took a shaky breath.

“I’m going to say something that is going to sound dumb, but it’s the truth,” Dana warned. “You will feel like that for the rest of your life. You learn to live with it, but that fear never goes away. Especially when your baby isn’t within arm’s reach.

“That was a terrible pep talk.” You chuckled.

“Yeah, well, I never said I was a motivational speaker.” Dana laughed.

The door opened and Robby walked in. He looked between the two of you before making his way to the coffee machine.

“Good to see you eating real food.” He huffed.

“Yeah, yeah.” You rolled your eyes.

“Is she taking it easy?” Robby asked Dana, sipping his coffee with a scowl.

“She is. I’m taking care of her, don’t you worry.” Dana hushed him.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” You crossed your arms, watching the creases between his brows deepen.

“I don’t like you being here.” Robby grumbled.

“Excuse me?” You snapped.

“Tread carefully, Cap.” Dana warned.

“Jack told me he offered for you to stay at home, to rest. You refused. It makes me nervous.” Robby scratched at the back of his neck.

“I’m fine, Mike. I don’t want to stay at home with nothing to do.” You sighed, pulling your protein shake from the lunch box and drinking it.

“Forgive me if I’m a little weary of you working; the last time you did, you were admitted.” Robby said.  

“I have it under control now. Just some light nausea on rare occasions. I haven’t vomited in two weeks. If I stayed at home, my brain would run away with me. You know that better than anyone.” You sighed, standing up. You tossed your lunchbox and it’s remains into the fridge. There was a subtle flutter that made you still for a moment.

“What? What is it?” Robby set his mug down and stood next to you.

“Nothing.” You said, closing the door and trying to move around him.

“It wasn’t. What happened?” He put a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m fine, Mike! Let me go.” You growled.

“I’m not doing this shit again, Bunny!” Robby barked back.

“God!” You pushed him off. “The baby kicked, I’m not used to it. Happy!?”

“Oh.” His face turned red. “Can I-”

“No, you may not. Jack will be the first one to feel them besides me.” You said. You grabbed your water bottle and stomped out of the room.

“Told you to watch it.” Dana shook her head as she followed you out.

The rest of the shift trudged along. You spent most of the last half doing charts. Dana’s ever-watchful eye on you. You would be lying if you said you minded the opportunity to sit. Your back was already starting to bother you.

You tapped your foot, waiting for Jack to come in. The baby had started to get more active with you being off your feet. When his silver curls came bounding in, you jumped up.

“How was it?” He asked as he unpacked his bag.

“Fine. Come with me.” You grabbed him before he could register what was happening.

“Whoa!” He protested as you pulled him into an empty room and closed the door. “What’s going on?”

“I want to show you something.” You smiled, taking his hand and placing it on your belly where you’d been feeling the jabs all day.

“Bunny, what are you doing?” He asked, standing close to you.

“Dammit. The last half hour, they were kicking up a storm.” You sighed.

“Yeah?” Jack smiled.

“Yeah, I wanted you to feel it.” You couldn’t help the tears welling up.

“It was probably because you were sitting down and resting.” He pulled you over to the chair and plopped you down.

“Talk to them. Maybe they’ll start up when they recognize it’s you.” You ran a hand through his curls.

“I don’t know-”

“It’s just us. Besides, are you going to be embarrassed to talk to them when they’re here?” You crossed your arms.

“Fair point.” Jack smiled. He pressed a kiss to your belly, pulling away just enough to move his lips. “Hey, little guy. Mom says you’ve been dancing up a storm in there. You think you could let your old man feel you? I’d like it a hell of a lot.”

There was a long moment where the air hung electric between you two. Jack’s hands roamed across your belly as he waited for anything to happen. He was about to give up when there was a little nudge against his hand.

“See?” You smiled.

“Wow. That was them?” He asked, a shake to his voice.

“Yeah, they know you already.” You wiped the tears from your cheeks.

“Holy shit.” Jack chuckled, his eyes starting to tear up.

“Pretty cool, huh?” You watched him revel in the moment.

“Amazing.” He leaned close again. “Do it one more time for me. Come on, you can do it.” He was met with another nudge.

“You two are already teaming up. I’m doomed.” You chuckled.

“We’re done for. We’re absolutely wrapped around their finger.” Jack laughed.

The moment was interrupted by Dana coming in. She was about to lecture the two of you, but quickly understood what was going on.

“Robby is whining about getting out of here. Finish up your cute moment and get your ass in gear.” Dana smiled and left.

“Alright, little guy, be good for Mom. I’ll be home in the morning and we can have breakfast.” Jack kissed your belly before standing up, offering you a hand and pulling you to your feet.

“Good surprise?” You asked as the two of you left the room.

've talked about pregnant Bruce in the no pack au a few times, but I have no idea how to go find them lordy I post too much.

I do love this though! Imagine the batkids aren't even meaning to be derogatory, they're just blustering, covering up for the jealousy at the idea of Bruce with a baby. They say all of this, they see Bruce cover up the hurt, leave, and feel rotten.

And, as you said, his health isn't good. He's suffered a lot as Batman, and a lot as a rejected omega. He can't carry the baby to term, and he loses it a few months in. His hope, his light, die with it, and he falls into a depression bad enough to rival the aftermath of Jason's death.

Alfred manages to coax him downstairs, but he can't get further than the doorway of the dining room. His kids, who don't want to be. His Damian, who refutes him too. How could he have expected this pregnancy to work, when he's failed six times at being a parent already? He can't cope, and the last thing the kids see is tears as Bruce ducks away and disappears.

They can't find him, and Clark calls hours later, whispering, explaining Bruce came to him and Lois, walked in his pyjamas, in his slippers, to Metropolis in a storm, was almost unresponsive, other than tears. Clark notifies Bruce is going to stay with them, he doesn't want to be at the manor.

You’re given drinks to ease the pain on a carefully timed rotation- Baelor has made your comfort the highest priority. There is nothing worse to him than needless suffering. Especially if it’s yours. 

Even still, you are wracked with cramps and aches, pains that spasm through your muscles and leave you weak and short of breath. No amount of poultices or herbs or milk of the poppy can cut through the feeling entirely. 

Baelor doesn’t know why he feels so responsible for your care. Why the need to help and be at your service is so deeply important to him, or why tending to you feels like a vocation- he cannot say for sure.

What he does know is that this vigil is a necessity.

Maekar was angry, at first.

His brother had dragged him out into the halls on the second morning of Baelor’s bedside supervision, hissing so no servants had the chance to overhear. 

“It’s unseemly. It isn’t fucking proper, Baelor- you’re her uncle.”

Maekar ground his jaw back and forth, the red of his cheeks stark in comparison to the white of his beard.

“For fuck’s sake- you are the Right Hand of the King. Don’t you have better things to be doing?”

Baelor was quiet. He studied the flex of the tendons in his own hand. He’d always been good at waiting out his younger brother's anger, until the emotions lost steam and could be met with reason. 

“I am tending to the wreck your son has decided to leave in his wake.”

Maekar’s mouth had dropped in shock but he’d recovered well. Stuffed the emotion down with a roll of his eyes and a bitter sigh and held out a finger, still accusing but at the beginnings of a retreat. 

“You clean this mess, quietly, and I’ll see to your small court duties. After the week is through, we all will return to our stations.”

Baelor nodded. Maekar turned on his heel so quickly his doublet had flared out, and before the dust even settled, Baelor had taken up at your side again.

As it stands, you are just another mess to Maekar. And to Daeron: too much responsibility, a vessel to his pure fear of the future.

Baelor considers them fools who cannot see how inherently worthy you are. 

You are worthy of Baelor’s time and attention, certainly. And of the best care the realm and royal coffers can provide. 

Still, you bleed. 

The midwives attend you once an hour, changing out the cotton strips and the sheets when needed. 

Jena did not bleed this long. 

It’s the one thought Baelor has allowed himself to ruminate upon. It emboldens him to ask questions of the Grandmaester; it keeps him focused on your care to the highest degree. 

Maybe it is not fair to compare your experience to that of his late wife’s- Jena’s miscarriage happened nearly two decades ago, and it was a quick, quiet affair that Baelor only caught the tail end of when he’d returned home from dealing with a skirmish. 

Her sadness hadn’t been the same as yours. The depths of your grief are wholly different- Jena already had beautiful Valarr to console her, and a healthy Matarys only a year after the lost pregnancy.

This would have been your first. 

Baelor knows, your grief is different.

Mostly, it has made you quiet. 

Your usual voracity for life- in clear, bright laughter that echoes off the red stones of the Keep’s hallways, in armfuls of hand-gathered flowers from the gardens, in easy smiles and gentle touches- has been drained from you. 

There is something pale and distant now to the way you speak. Even your silences are weighty and troubled. 

This, of all things, is to be expected. Baelor does not know when you will return to yourself- only that he wishes to be there when it happens, and to usher in your healing as much as he is allowed. 

The weather is most gloomy today. A ceaseless drizzle of rain casts the skies grey and swathes the whole castle in damp air. 

Even with the clouds, there is a weak beam of light arching from your bedroom window. It crests over the edge of the dragon-red covers, glinting off the decorative pillows and ending where Baelor’s boots rest on the floor. 

He is at your bedside, again. In the same chair that held his form from sunrise to sunset yesterday. It is high-backed and cushioned well enough, though Baelor could feel the strain in his back and shoulders upon leaving your side for bed last night.

If Baelor had his most secret wishes fulfilled, he would have spent the night on a floor pallet just to be near, should you have needed him. But that would have been much too bold a statement, and things are tenuous enough as they stand with the rest of his relatives. 

So Baelor sits at your side and stares unseeing at the parchment in his hands. It is a log account of trade ships that looks rather important, if someone were to look over his shoulder. 

He is trying to maintain the appearance of duty that is most comfortable for everyone to accept. In truth, his current duty lies in living for every breath you are taking. 

You’ve been sleeping since he arrived before dawn. The Grandmaster gave report that your night was spent fitfully and low-spirited. 

Baelor thinks he can see the strain in your expression, even while you sleep. There is a furrow to your brow, an unsettled turn to the corner of your lips. 

You share this in common with your husband. Rest often cannot be found, even in dreaming. 

Your eyes flutter open an hour before noon. 

The first face you make is a wince, one of pain- Baelor’s parchment hits the floor without another glance as he leans in.

“H- hurts.” The word falls flatly from your mouth. Your lip twists again, as do your hands into the bedsheets. 

Baelor places his palm over the tight fist of your left hand. He is not thinking of how this would look, should any servants enter- he is only thinking of you. Of taking away that awful, animal haze in your eyes. 

“Tell me,” he soothes. In the same voice he uses for spooked mares. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“M-” Another word split by the lance of a gasp, your left hand unfurling beneath Baelor’s touch as your other drifts to carefully rest at your midsection beneath the blankets. “-my stomach. The worst.”

Baelor nods. He coasts his thumb against the pulse of your wrist’s heartbeat. It is agony to touch you, it is agony to not touch you, it is agony to see you this way. 

“Stay here,” he instructs, feeling foolish as soon as he’s said it- as if you could defy any orders right now. 

Your eyes stay on Baelor as he rises, as he crosses to the fireplace at the far wall of your room. He can feel your gaze as intense as the sun on the back of his neck as he kneels at the brick. 

There are embers still burning low in the middle of all the firewood; Baelor uses a prong to roll a few of them closer, then guides them into the short-handled bronze warming pan. 

He takes a thick strip of muslin from a nearby table and wraps the pan so the heat will permeate but not burn, then returns to your side. 

The painful pinch of your face eases some when Baelor folds the heated bundle to your stomach, buffeting and smoothing the blankets and covers around to hold it in place.

You blink up at Baelor from amongst your cradle of pillows. In a shadow of your former tone, your whisper comes- 

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

Baelor shakes his head even before your apology is finished. 

“Sorry? For what?”

Your fingers tangle in the sheets again. 

“I lost an heir. A child of the Crown. But- I will be better. A better wife, better at my duties- I will get Daeron to… to love me.”

Sadness fills the well of Baelor’s chest. How heavy the crown must feel on your young head, even in the midst of so much grief.

There’s a lurch that cannot be ignored- Baelor picks up your nearest hand and encloses it in both of his, rings kissing coolly at your skin. 

The godswood will hear his footfalls, later, for the overstep he willingly commits now. 

“Dear heart. You need not worry about anything besides your health- the most important thing for the Crown is that you become well again.”

Your gaze drops to the fold of your hands together against the stark red of the covers. Baelor continues, still gentle- 

“And my nephew cares for you. Very much. He happens to have… regrettable issues with responsibility. He will return, and I will support you in whatever hand you deem necessary to deal him.”

It is not a lie- Daeron is besotted with you. 

He sticks to your side at parties and councils, trails after you in the halls like a lost puppy, and is a decent husband when he puts his mind to it. When he isn’t avoiding his emotions and shirking his commitments by drowning in ale or sleeping in ditches. 

“I do not judge him harshly,” you murmur. Too forgiving, too kind. “I know how difficult a loss this is to weather.”

Baelor closes his eyes against the absolute goodness of your nature, then looks back to you with quiet intention. 

“You must know, my lady, that you are not at fault for this. The maesters have estimated one in every four pregnancies come to a premature end. No one should cause you to feel any guilt- least of all yourself.”

There is an overwhelming gratefulness brimming along with your tears; Baelor looks away again before it is irreparably scorched onto his soul. 

His thumb strokes over your wrist. He needs to say it, because you should hear it from someone, so he does. 

“This was not caused by anything you did. Or anything you could have done differently. Your time will come again.”

Beneath Baelor’s fingertip, your pulse ticks when you ask- “Are you sure?”

You sound so vulnerable. It does not help that your hair is undone, free of the royal uptwists and jeweled hairpins that your lady’s maids are so fond of dressing you in. It’s flowing loose over your pillow, framing a face that now appears much younger than its years.

It is most becoming. Baelor fears it will be his undoing.

He shifts in his seat. Clears his throat. Tells a story to try and put some distance between you and the truth of his soul. 

“My late wife, Jena, had a loss such as this. And by next spring, she had Matarys. The occurrence of such miracles are more common than one would think.”

Hope seems to crumple you, brave face cracking along with your voice. 

Longing lays your questioning plain. “Really? And Matarys, he was- he was healthy? At birth?”

Baelor smiles at the recollection. “The babe was so sturdy, our Grandmaester at the time thought the Princess was blessed with twins. But it was just Matarys, and his thighs as round as a honeyloaf each.” 

There is a tremulous wet laugh that breaks through your tears, and Baelor feels something within take flight at the sound. 

He asks if you might stomach some food, and at the wrinkle of your nose, turns to the bedside table where a pot of tea has been left to strengthen. 

The leaves of Lady’s Mantle are meant to stopper any bleeding- though Baelor is not sure it is working as intended. Regardless, it will be a small comfort to see you take down any sort of sustenance. 

He realizes halfway in turning with cup in hand that weak as you are, you will need help- his help- to drink.

Baelor slips his hand behind your head and nearly jolts at the warmth of it, at the feeling of your neck and hair and the stick of sweat at your skin. He aids in lifting your head, then holds the cup to your lips while you drink. 

By the time you finish the breath is ragged in Baelor’s throat, which he attempts to cover with another clear of his throat and busying himself with returning the cup to its table. 

Your eyes are on his again, worry creasing a line between your brows. 

“You likely should not be here, Your Grace. I’m sure Prince Maekar had some harsh words for you. If I am the cause of any strife-”

“No,” Baelor interrupts. Smooth and velvet even through the temper that flares at the thought of you having overheard his brother’s fit. “Not in the slightest. His visit this morning was one of well-wishing and the extension of a most generous offer to take over my courtly duties while I am here.”

Your eyebrow arches severely and with much skepticism.

Baelor smiles, fond at seeing such a familiar expression, one that speaks to the natural state of your fiery personality at any time other than sickbed. 

“Trust me, sweetling,” Baelor says, the epithet escaping before he can stifle it. “It is in the realm’s best interest that someone is watching over you.”

There is a hint of a smile around your eyes even as they grow heavy with exhaustion. “It is hard to complain when I am in such good company. I consider myself lucky indeed.”

Your hand nearest Baelor is resting on an embroidered black dragon. He waits as your breathing evens out, watching the light twitch of your fingers against the covers.

And then a murmur from your lips just before sleep pulls you under.

“Thank you, Baelor.”

His name, stripped of its title, is startlingly intimate. 

Baelor cannot bear to look at the serenity of your face for a few minutes, gaze fixed still on the threads of a dragon under your palm. He gains courage enough to stretch out the back of his hand to your temple, feeling for a fever but gratefully finding only skin dewed with sweat. 

Baelor wonders at many things, in the quiet that lapses after you fall into the land of the dreaming. 

He wonders if more milk of the poppy would be appropriate on your waking. He wonders at your kindness that seems to have no bounds. He wonders if Daeron would care to know that it is his uncle tending your bedside. 

Baelor does not let his wonderings linger on his feelings towards you- not for any real length of time. The overwhelm of duty, care, and love that he feels for his nephew’s wife does not sit easily at the council of his thoughts. 

I would find a way to give her the world, if she asked. I would give her a child. 

When this thought crawls up the back of his neck like gooseflesh Baelor leans down to retrieve the scattered parchment from the floor. 

He rests it in his lap once more and stares, unseeing, at the scratch of ship logs. He listens to your breathing and awaits the next entry of servants who wish to bring you back to health nearly as much as him. 

Baelor keeps vigil, the best he knows how. 

afterword: thank you so much for reading! reblogs are never required but much appreciated <3

for more AKOTSK content: my masterlist <3

Should he have told her? Told Heather about how his life would never be the same again whilst hers was… empty. It was crude and crass. Mean in a way he never wanted to be but it was the truth. Within his hands he held what she wanted the most, and he hadn’t even wanted it for the first few fleeting moments of knowing. That had filled him with guilt as well. How could he regret something so precious?

Those thoughts scared him. He was scared of the concequences. Of the potential karma, middah k’neged middah, that could come back to bite him in the ass for even thinking like that in the first place.

It was a coincidence that he met you. He wasn’t meant to. He should’ve been at work, he was always at work, but then he actually got to leave on time for the first time in weeks. As he was tiredly making his way up his front steps he was startled by an unfamiliar voice calling out his name, causing him to swivel around dangerously fast.

“Whoa, there.” You let out a giggle as you reached out in an attempt to steady him.

He didn’t know you. Had never seen you before. But god did he want to know you.

“Do I know you or-?” He let his voice trail of as he furrowed his brown in contemplation.

“Definitely not, sorry. My nana lives a couple of doors down. She insisted I left some of the cookies we made on your doorstep, didn’t think you’d be home!”

“Nana?”

“On number 4?” You waved your hand down the drive and he understood. That sweet old lady that was always kind to him, always checked in, always admired him for the work he did.

“Thank you.” He smiled tiredly as he accepted the plate of caramel cookies, his stomach rumbling appreciatively.

“You just coming back from work?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Busy day.” He laughed awkwardly as he studied you. You were beautiful to put it plain and simply. A face he would never be able to forget. A body he would think about as he fisted himself that night.

“I can image. Could never do that. Be a doctor.” You smiled again and he sighed.

“You visit your nana a lot?” He shouldn’t have asked. Should’ve left it at that, turned around and crawl back into his cave but you had captivated him in those few simple moments. Ensnared him in your being. Trapped him in between your loins without you even knowing it.

It had been inevitable after that. He sought you out. Spent more time on his lawn that he had never cared for before. Made sure to leave work on time whenever he could. It had been a welcomed change, a good change, he felt better for it but yet those thoughts still plagued him. The guilt for wanting to sink his dick into a girl that was too young for him to be thinking about. He wanted to hear you whine in his ear. To taste your slick as you gushed around his fingers. To melt into your entire being without abandon. And he would, eventually, and you would welcome him.

The first time he got you in his bed was one month after the first time he had seen you. You had been stopping by after you’d visited your Nana every Thursday and Sunday. Sometimes it was just for a chat. Sometimes he would invite you in for a cold beverage. And, eventually, it became so much more.

It was you who’d let yourself in after he worked a long shift, creeping through his house that you had grown more familiar with as you searched for him. He was sitting on the couch, hunched over his own lap with his head in his hands after another long shift, breathing heavily as he tried to will the adrenaline to leave his body.

“Long day?” Your hands slid over his shoulders as you asked your question in a way that was far too alluring for a question asked between simple friends.

“You have no idea.” Michael sighed as he leaned back, welcoming the way your hands moved to his shoulders, rubbing them firmly.

“You wanna tell me about it?” His eyes opened to meet yours as you moved to face him. He should’ve left it there. Should’ve talked to you, unload some of his burden through words yet he couldn’t do it. Instead, his hand grabbed onto your shirt, pulling you down so each of your legs rested on either side of him. You let out a giggle over his actions because they didn’t startle you, you had been greatly anticipating them. You had seen the way he would watch you, eyes heavy with lust whenever your shirt would ride just a little bit too low or your skirt would rise too high to still be decent.

“Do *you* want me to tell you about it?”

“Of course.” You ran your hand over his hair, caressing it as your hand came to rest on the back of his neck, watching as his eyes traced your face with wonder.

“Maybe later.” He murmured before reaching up to connect his lips with your own. It was like Michael could never get enough of you, biting and pulling at your lips. His tongue explored your mouth with a delighted moan. You couldn’t help but grind your hips down into his lap, gasping as you felt the large growing bulge that pushed against you. His lips found their way to your neck, suckling and leaving wet kisses in his wake. You grew wetter with every nibble.

Michael guided you to his bedroom, pushing and pulling at your clothes to undress you as you went before pushing you down on the bed as he hurriedly worked on pulling off his own shirt and jeans.

“I’ve had a really stressful day, honey. You gonna make it all better for me?” Michael asked as he gazed down at you, already dazed as you laid there on his bed. The bed that smelled like him, that was soft against your skin, and you never wanted to leave.

“Yeah.” You nodded eagerly. He was still in his boxers, hands running over your legs, up and down as he memorised the way you felt.

“You’re so sweet to me, honey, aren’t you?” He mumbled before crawling over you, his stiff cock rubbing against your thighs through his boxers as he went. You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out, and a small smile grew on Michael’s face as he heard it. Your moans were a symphony, singing through his house as he admired it.

As his lips connected with yours again, your hand trailed down, rubbing him through the material. The thickness overwhelmed you, your breath hitching as you pushed the fabric down frantically, need ing to feel it.

“Aren’t you an eager girl?” Michael pressed a kiss to your cheek, letting out a moan as you finally wrapped your fingers around him. Somehow, he felt thicker this way, long and throbbing for you as you pumped him timidly.

“God, you feel so good.” Something came over him as he heard you puff out those words, seeding with anticipation. He never thought he’d hear you say them and it awoke something in him that he couldn’t entirely control.

“You wanna have a taste, sweetheart?”

You were eager as you moved slightly to the side so he could lay down, sinking into the pillows as you came to your knees between his parted legs. Of course, you were compliant, eagerly opening your mouth to take him in. You rested your hands on his thighs to steady yourself.

He was quick to rest his hand on the back of your head, guiding you as you took him in your mouth. There was no easing into it. Not this time. Not when your mouth practically watered over the thought of tasting him, of feeling the slight tangy saltiness of him on your tongue.

Michael softly encouraged you to take him, the length of his shaft being swallowed as far as you could go, gagging around him as he hit the back of your throat.

“Shh… gentle, honey. Don’t hurt yourself.” He muttered softly, caressing your head before getting lost in the feeling of your hot mouth wrapped around him, moans and groans slipping out through his clenched teeth.

Your eyes watered as his hips almost involuntarily bucked to meet your mouth, but you loved the taste of him and couldn’t get enough of him as you hollowed your cheeks, trying to take him even further.

‘*Fuck!*’ He groaned out. You were watching him from under hooded eyelids and his gaze was intense as he stared back, eyes practically glowing with lust.

“You’re doing so well for me.”

You moaned around him, a small dollop of drool trailing down your chin. One of your hands moved from his thigh to gently play with his balls and he moaned before giving a final, small thrust into your mouth and then withdrawing himself from you.

There were tears of pleasure trickling down your cheeks and you couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction as you wiped your mouth clean with the back of your hand.

“Come here.” Michael went to take your hand but you drew it back, shaking your head as you smiled at him. You didn’t say anything as you turned around on the bed, sinking your front down and spreading your knees for him. Your face was down, ass up as you glanced at him over your shoulder, wiggling slightly to tease him. You needed him inside of you. You were already so unbelievably wet, practically dripping onto the sheets as your walls clamped down on nothing again.

He was admiring you. Taking his sweet time as he thought this would be the only time he would do so. You weren’t enjoying it as much as he appeared to be. You *needed* to be touched. There was this incredible yearning inside of you, it felt like your entire body was buzzing from how horny you were and the ache between your thighs was becoming unbearable. You couldn’t help but slide your fingers closer to your core, ready to plunge them into yourself to get some kind of relief. He stopped you before you could get any further though, caressing your fingers as he used his other hand to sit up behind you.

“You’re too perfect.” He muttered it quietly to himself but you still heard him, causing your body to flush with further heat.

You were hyper-aware of his proximity, he was so close you could feel his heat against the back of your thighs, and you were ready to beg for any kind of touch, you just needed to *feel* him. But you didn’t need to beg for Michael to slide his massive fingers down the curve of your spine just a few moments later. He palmed your ass, kneading your cheeks with both hands.

“So gorgeous.” He breathed out shakily, completely enamoured at the sight of you presented for him.

“Could keep you like this for days. Fucking you until you swell.” His words sent a shiver down your spine and you were flooded with wetness again. Your thighs almost jerked as you impulsively moved backwards, seeking some sort of further contact.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes! Please, Michael, please.” You could’ve started sobbing from the need right there and then, you couldn’t take the wait any longer.

Michael spread you wide in front of him, lining up his knees with your own as he gently and slowly dragged his thick cock through your folds, coating it in your slickness. You were sure that he enjoyed torturing you; your entire body was close to convulsions caused by the anticipation, it felt like it was eating you up, swallowing you whole.

“You sure, honey?” Michael teased you, sounding far too calm and unaffected by the situation, “You sure you want an old man like me?” He started withdrawing himself from you, hands leaving your flesh, but you reacted quickly, sitting up and grabbing a hold of his wrist before he was too far away.

“No, no, no, please, Michael. Only want you, only you, please just-“You usually weren’t one to plead but it was impossible not to, you needed him more than you’d ever needed anyone before.

Michael loved hearing you beg; it was obvious from the satisfied look that flashed across his face. It was so painfully obvious that you were ready to do just about anything for his cock.

He motioned for you to get back into your previous position on all fours and then, *finally*, he pushed in, in one slow, agonising thrust, burying his thick shaft to the hilt inside of you. The entire room practically shook from the loud groan he let out as he split you open.

“Jesus Christ, you take me so fucking well.” Michael sounded like he was almost in disbelief, ecstatic from the sight of his throbbing cock disappearing into the sweetness that was you, buried deep inside your slick warmth. The burn from the stretch was welcomed as pure bliss and you couldn’t help letting out a shuddering gasp.

He let you adjust, pressing himself into you and just resting there for a moment. The way you pulsed around him was killing him. He could feel the way your body urged his to move and all he could do was heed. He moved with small, shallow thrusts before he lost the small threads of the semblance of control he had managed to somehow maintain. He pulled back, his cock leaving you entirely for a moment before he started pounding into you.

You cried out, hands bunching up his sheets as bliss ran through you.

“Feels so good.” You breathe out shakily between urgent thrusts.

“Yeah?” Michael cooed as he pulled back out. “You like my cock? I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He promised.

His thrusts were sharp and precise with an unrelenting and frenzied tempo. His grip on your hips was so becoming almost painfully tight as he used it to slam you back against him, but you didn’t care, too lost in the waves that were overtaking you. You would cherish any marks left by him on your body.

“You feel so good around my cock, honey.” He praised in a murmur. “So fucking tight.” Michael grabbed a hold of your arms, pulling you up as he continued pumping into your sweet cunt. He had you pressed flush against his chest, back arching as the sound of skin slapping and the wet squelches of your sopping wet pussy echoed around the room. It made you even more drenched; the mixture of your pleasure pooling around the base of his cock, running down the inside of your thighs.

One of Michael’s hands shifted to palm gently at your breast while the other travelled downward to roll and lightly pinch at your clit while rolling his hips and you writhed against him.

“You gonna be a good girl and cum around me?” He asked lowly in your ear. “You gonna beg me to cum inside you?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes, please, Michael.”

Michael pushed you down onto the bed, unsheathing himself from you.

You didn’t even have to begin to miss the feeling of him before he had wrestled you into the position he wanted you in with legs wrapped around his waist and back to the bed so that he could easily drill into you in deep but short strokes.

You felt yourself slowly losing whatever composure you had left as your muscles tighten over the coiling tension. Your walls gripped him tighter and tighter until finally, your eyes rolled back as you reached your peak, walls spasming and moan bouncing around the room. You were seeing stars as your legs shook uncontrollably from the overwhelming feeling.

Michael was relentless as he continued pumping into you throughout your convulsing climax, determined to make you feel the best you ever had, although the pace was much slower than previously. His breaths were coming out in short pants whilst your own breathy moans as you trembled.

You reached up, treading your fingers through his hair to pull him down slightly to connect your lips in a kiss. It was soft. A sort of ‘thank you for making me come’.

“You haven’t begged yet.” He murmured after a few pecks, picking up the pace of his hips once again, balls swinging as they slapped against you every time he fucked into you.

His pelvis was rubbing against your clit in a delicious way, driving you toward the edge again but you were conscious enough in your own thoughts, not yet completely lost in the pleasure again, to follow his command.

“Please, Michael, cum inside of me. I need it.” You pleaded in his ear, causing him to let out a hissed groan.

“Fuck, honey. You sound so good when you beg. He praised with a wet kiss to your lips.

You were sure he was just about to cum, but then he surprised you, flipping you over so that you were on top. Michael placed his hands behind his head, studying you with a bold look.

“Wanna make me cum, honey?” He asked and you were more than happy to comply, quickly moving to the right position so you could easily bounce up and down his cock. Was it possible for him to be as deep as he was? Your hips snapped down over and over, hands stabilizing you on his chest. You loved it when Michael was in control but seeing the way you made his mind hazy underneath you were a sight for sore eyes.

Michael’s orgasm washed over him with a deep jerk upward, spilling deeply into you with a deep groan. Your previously vigorous bounces became softer as your walls milked him dry of every last drop. You bite your lip with a smile, running your hands over his chest for comfort. He was so solid beneath you, ropes of muscles flexing involuntarily.

“You look so pretty just like that.” Michael caressed your cheek sweetly.

Now, here you were. Months later and swelled with his child. With his love. With his devotion. You would so often tell him that he made you the happiest you had ever been but he didn’t know if he truly believed you. Jealousy plagued him whenever you would go out together and he would see the way others looked at you. You were an **enigma**, lusted after by many. And that green, sickly little monster that steadily grew beneath his skin roared its ugly head whenever he would catch their eyes lingering longer than appropriate. He’d placed his heavy hand at your waist, place a kiss beind your ear, and caress the skin of your arms when he did so, showing them that you were claimed by him.

He knew what they all thought. That he was too old, you were too pretty, it would never work. But he knew you. You wanted this life with him more than anything, basking in the happiness of sweet domesticity that had enveloped you and your little family. It was forever you and him until the end, you both had ensured that.

It would be foolish to think that others hadn’t noticed the change in Robby’s demeanour. The weight that had rested on his shoulders for the last few years was lighter. Glaringly obviously so. As much as he thought he could hide it before, the act of no longer trying was abundantly clear. Michael Robinavich had found his way back to happiness.

Yet, he did not tell them why. They could guess, muse over what they thought the cause to be. Maybe he started going to a new therapist? Tried a new workout form? Finally got laid?

No matter how relentless the questions where, the teasing glances, he never let them know. Not until you happened to walk into the E.R. on a Thursday afternoon.

You waltzed in to the Pitt with a smile that tasted of sunshine, with glee evident in every stride. Your hips swayed under the weight of your belly, yet the literal pep in your step couldn’t even be held down by it. You had slinked in through the ambulance bay, just as he’d instructed if ever you needed to. as much as he wanted to keep you all to himself, to never tell anybody of his precious, he couldn’t bring himself to stop you from seeing him whenever you wanted to or needed to.

Dana saw you first. Eyebrows raising slightly over the apparent audacity of sneaking in and then furrowing with worry when she saw your belly, concerned that something was wrong with you.

“Miss, can I help you?”

Her voice had startled you for a moment, mouth forming into an ‘o’ as you abandoned your search for something she wasn’t quite sure about.

“Oh, yes please! I’m looking for Michael.” You smiled and Dana was puzzled.

“Michael?”

“Doctor Robinavich?”

“I think he’s busy right now. Perhaps one of our other doctors can look you over? Is something wrong with the baby?” Dana led you over to one of the chairs in the hallway, nudging you to sit down as you cradled your stomach, letting out a small huff as you did so.

“No, I don’t think so?” You were puzzled, too tired to understand why she was concerned.

“It’s best if somebody has a look.” She said with a tone of finality that left you speechless, nodding your head as she apparently knew best.

It was a rush and tumble of limbs as Doctor McKay introduced herself to you, pulled you up with a helping arm, and had you ushered into a room and onto a gurney in the huff of a breath.

“How far along are you?”

”Oh, ehm… 32 weeks” McKay pressed gently and firmly on your stomach as he asked you some routine questions that you tried to answer to the best of your ability.

“Have you had any pain or tenderness today?”

“Could you get Dr. Robinavich?” Your question caused her to pause in her movements, a contemplative look being shared between her and Dana.

“Have you been to the E.R. recently?”

“No?” You looked unsure over your own answer.

“Dr. McKay, do you need help in here?” Michael’s voice carried through the room with a startle, yet it didn’t scare you. He pushed the curtain aside, pausing as he saw you laid there with your round stomach bared to the world, his child inside of you, and all sense of composure left his body. Your name left him almost breathlessly as he felt a cold shiver of fear run through him.

“Hi!” You chirped, happy to see him despite the situation you had somehow found yourself in. “I brought your lunch.” You motioned to the bag you had been lugging with you that was now resting on the floor.

“Lunch?” It wasn’t he that asked, it was McKay who had taken a step back from you, looking even more bewildered than before.

“Mhmm… I made lasagna.” You smiled at her.

“Lasagna.” Dana inserted herself, looking at Robby with an expression that was clearly asking for an explanation. “You said you were hurt?” She questioned you and Robby felt dizzy again over the possibility.

“No, I don’t think I said that…” You sounded unsure once more, hands smoothing over your belly as if to check.

“You hurt yourself?” Michael asked you, ignoring his coworkers that were watching the situation unfold.

“You left before I gave you your lunch.” Your voice sounded small and Michael felt his heart ache. He crossed the small space, coming up beside you, taking your hand in both of his.

“I’m sorry.” He gave you a small smile, overwhelmed by the way you *cared* for him. He hadn’t felt that in a while, not in this way.

“Baby okay then?”

“Yeah, baby okay.” You nodded your head.

Dana and McKay watched as Robby caressed your stomach in a way that was too familiar, looked down at you with a softness in his eyes and a too sweet smile for you to be just a patient.

He helped you up and they quite slinked out through the curtains, sharing a look that screamed “what-the-fuck” before Dana looked around as if wondering if she had imagined it all.

“What the hell is going on today?” It was a rhetorical question. Asked to herself more than anyone else. Had she overworked her self so much that she was imagining things? But, of course, she wasn’t. Not to that extent. She hadn’t been alone with you and Robby.

The curtain was drawn back with a startle. Robby walking out and you followed behind him, stomach tucked away in your shirt but it was still there. Still real.

“Sorry about that, ladies.” Dana almost wanted to laugh at Robby’s attempt to brush them aside. She knew that he knew she wouldn’t just let this slide.

“Let me follow you out.” Michael murmured to you, placing a tender hand on your lower back as he steered you toward the exit.

“I’m sorry.” You said as the two of you came to a standstill outside of the Pitt, looking down at your shoes with uncertainty.

“You don’t need to apologise, honey.” Michael let out a small laugh as he encircled you in his arms.

“But I- your colleagues thought…”

“They needed something to talk about anyways, today’s been too quiet.”

“I don’t think you should say that word.”

“No, probably not.” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Thank you for lunch.”

“I made lasagna.”

“So I heard. You ate, too?”

“Mhmm, baby was hungry.”

“Good.” Another kiss, another caress to your stomach, feeling his baby kick before you were on your way back home to the house you now shared.

Robby watched you go long after you had disappeared, bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions that would face him once he entered back through those doors. His hands rested on his shoulders, massaging the invisible knots in his neck before he spun around on his heels.

He had barely had a chance to sit down before Dana materialised in front of him.

“Something you wanna tell me, Robby?” Dana asked, looking at him with feigned disapproval.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Robby pretended to be far too invested in the screen in front of him.

“No? You don’t happen to be more than half way to being a daddy? I doubt it’s somebody else’s kid in there.”

Robby glowered over the thought that somebody else had made you the way that you were. It was his doing. His achievement. He was the one that had fucked you until tears leaked from your eyes, over and over again. He was the one that had filled your womb with his cum as he grunted and groaned, fucking into you without abandon and pumping his cum into you to make sure it stayed. He’d wanted it to stick then, a baseless fantasy that eventually became reality.

“See, that look on your face tells me everything I need to know.” Dana let out a sharp laugh.

“Look, I don’t-“

“You think I’m stupid or something? She looked awfully young.”

“‘Course not.”

“Then what the hell?”

“I know it’s wrong, I know I’m a dirty old bastard, alright? I just- it felt… it was never the right time to say anything about it. Not here.” He leaned toward her, whispering the words as he glanced around the E.R. He knew the sight of you and him and yours had stirred the surface of the gossiping pool. The nurses didn’t even have to hide it as they eagerly tried to listen to the words their chief and charge nurse were exchanging.

And then he saw her. Heather. Michael Robinavich didn’t want to share his joy because he knew about her pain. It wasn’t because he still loved her or had lingering feelings of any kind. He just didn’t want to cause her more heartache. And then the guilt came rushing back. For everything, over nothing.

Heather watched him from afar, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip as somebody whispered his secret in her ear. And he wished he could have told her first. Robby felt as if he had owed her that much at least. But it was too late and he didn’t know if he wanted to see whether she’d be happy for him or broken. So, he looked away.

“I hope you know you owe me a pay raise for keeping that from me, you dirty old man.” Dana slapped a hand against his shoulder as she let out a laugh, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

He grumbled, putting his glasses back on to return to his work.

So very NOT fun fact: Mary, in the St. Lanier’s au, had a miscarriage very shortly before Laszlo’s cancer diagnosis :(

Between everything that was going on around then AND working in a hospital Mary very much felt like she was surrounded by death and was not in a good place mentally.

Grant tried his best to help her through it, though, while ofc coping with it himself :,)